


To All Appearances

by Zaadi



Series: Alternate Third Series [11]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-19 02:55:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22637716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaadi/pseuds/Zaadi
Summary: Arthur and Merlin meet an incognito knight, Gwaine, in a bar fight. And provoke the ire of vengeful thugs. Adaptation of the third series episode "Gwaine".
Series: Alternate Third Series [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/38518
Kudos: 3





	To All Appearances

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing a Potential Third Series between series one and two of the show proper, which is how my Alternate Third Series became a canon-divergent AU branching off from 2.13 "The Last Dragonlord." I draw a great deal on Arthurian legends, thus many post-series-two characters from the show have the same names as my original characters (drawing on the same legend-pool can do that--who knew?). They are not the same people, however (e.g. if my stories were filmed, they'd be played by different actors). That being said, I really really liked the show's Gwaine, and I wanted to incorporate him into my AU. I use the show's spelling to indicate such, for starters, but I also use the "Gwaine" episode's introduction and it's two villains, Dagr and Ebor. In a way, it's like I'm translating Gwaine into my world. I do tweak his backstory slightly. Also, different events having transpired in my AU, so characters are in different places, mentally speaking. Thanks and enjoy!

**3.11 To All Appearances**

* * *

Drying sweat prickled Merlin’s skin, and his horse snorted against the reins as he and Arthur emerged from the woods, the sun sharp against their eyes. Miraculously, the temperature was the same as in the shade. Merlin watched Arthur, hoping, _can we go home now?_

But Arthur was in a good mood. Hunting, to Merlin’s perpetual consternation, always put Arthur in a good mood, even if he didn’t catch anything. Like today.

“You know what you need after a hard day’s hunt?” Arthur asked, staring down the hill at a hamlet in the glade.

“Sleep?” Merlin requested. He had no idea where they were, but Arthur surely did. Arthur usually did—were Merlin feeling generous, he’d admit that Arthur had an impressive mastery of maps. But Merlin was not feeling generous.

“A nice tankard of mead,” Arthur said.

No.

“Mead?” Merlin did not want mead. He did not want Arthur’s musings. He did not want to visit this blot of a human settlement that Arthur was eyeing with pride—granted, it was similar to his own childhood village—but that was home, this was not.

“There’s no better place to measure the mood of the people than the local tavern,” Arthur said as their horses meandered down the slope.

 _How would you know_ , Merlin thought. In the three years he’d been Arthur’s servant, not once had he seen the Prince visit a tavern to ‘measure the mood of the people.’

They drew no notice from the few locals milling about. At a post that might also have been the town square, given its placement, Arthur dismounted and Merlin had to accept that there was no turning back.

“This is one of those moments where I tell you something isn’t a good idea and you ignore me, isn’t it?” he remarked as he dismounted.

“Afraid one of us might learn something?” Arthur said. He concentrated on knotting the rope, but the challenge in his voice was sharp, fleeting, and unmistakable.

Merlin secured his horse without comment, unsure what had suddenly piqued Arthur—they were _hunting_ , after all.

“Now remember,” Arthur said, his tone now mellowed, but firm, “in here you’re not my servant—I’m just a simple peasant like everyone else.”

“Simple part’s right,” Merlin muttered behind Arthur’s back.

“What?” Arthur glanced at Merlin.

“I said, the sun is very bright.”

“Riiight.”

Inside, the tavern was louder than Merlin would have thought. Perhaps the hamlet was hiding a village—or maybe it stood along a major trade road. If Merlin hadn’t wanted so badly to return to Camelot, he might have asked.

They grabbed an abandoned table, and as soon as they sat down, a plump, ruddy-cheeked woman approached.

“Afternoon,” she said. She wore a threadbare, faded yellow dress, and though not tall, she still towered. Curly brown hair framed her round face. She picked up the two deserted mugs with one hand, her muscled forearms bespeaking a life of labor.

“What’ll it be?” she asked, glancing at each as her free hand wiped the table with a well-used cloth. “You’re an handsome fellow,” she added.

“You wouldn’t be the first to say it,” Arthur replied approvingly.

“Oh,” the woman said awkwardly. “No—sorry—I was talking about your friend here.”

“Thank you,” Merlin smiled, both at the compliment and at Arthur’s befuddlement.

“Two tankards of mead, please,” Arthur said. The tavern lady left, with a parting twinkle in her eye for Merlin.

“I was wrong,” Merlin said. “Coming here was a great idea.” Maybe Arthur would want to leave soon—he was no longer as jovial as when they were on the hill, though Merlin couldn’t say exactly what had dampened his mood.

Yet when the mead arrived, Merlin found himself relaxing. Without princely pretensions, Arthur almost blended in—and it was always more fun to be Arthur’s friend than his servant. They could watch people—normal people—or listen, or both, or just sit until they didn’t want to anymore. Merlin had to admit—as a large, burly man stomped through the door—this was one of Arthur’s better ideas.

Not that he was going to say so aloud.

Meanwhile, the large, burly man smacked the hands of a small, red-clad, fair-skinned woman, sending the dishes she was carrying crashing to the floor—and provoking Arthur’s immediate attention.

Merlin side-eyed Arthur as the man marched up to the woman who’d greeted them—she now stood behind a long, high wooden table. Only half the room watched, and no one seemed surprised.

“Mary,” the man said.

“Dagr,” Mary said, wiping the table between them.

“Business looks good.”

“We have our better days,” Mary said, daring to meet Dagr’s eye.

“I don’t suppose you’d begrudge me my share, then.” A threat, all in good fun.

Mary tossed several coins on the table.

“And the rest?” Dagr said.

“That’s all we got.”

Merlin took another sip of mead. He swore he’d heard a note of defiance in Mary’s tone, which Dagr didn’t like. Arthur had left his seat.

Dagr yanked Mary forward by her shirt, pressing a knife tip to her throat.

“I’ll not ask again,” Dagr said.

“Take your hands off her,” Arthur ordered impatiently, standing behind Dagr.

Dagr turned, as though Arthur were a loud puppy. He swung at Arthur, and Arthur effortlessly threw Dagr into a nearby shelf.

“I’m gonna make you pay for that,” Dagr said, scrambling to his feet. Arthur watched, unimpressed.

Merlin chuckled into his tankard. “I’d like to see you try,” he said.

Dagr put two fingers to his mouth—challenge accepted—and released a piercing whistle. A dozen men, all large, burly—and surly—entered the tavern, blocking the door.

“You had to open your big mouth, didn’t you, Merlin?” Arthur said.

“You two have got yourselves into a bit of a pickle, haven’t you?” said a man now standing beside Arthur. As tall as Arthur, he spoke with a northern accent, had brown hair almost to his shoulders, and he seemed only half-interested in this calm-before-the-fight. He took a drink from the mug in his hands.

“You should get out of here while you have the chance,” Arthur said, sizing up Dagr’s men.

“You’re probably right,” the man agreed. He took one last swig from his mug, handed it to Dagr, and—before Dagr could fully comprehend what was in his hand and why—punched Dagr in the face.

Dagr’s men did not take kindly to that.

In the ensuing fight, Merlin tried to keep track of Arthur, but chaos reigned. At one point, he heard his name in Arthur’s voice, but two oncoming attackers demanded his attention—with a spell, he threw a bench at them, trusting that no one in such a brawl would notice a little errant magic.

He dodged an airborne chair; he maneuvered around someone’s fist; he slid under Mary’s counter and jumped to standing on the other side, the tall wood table between him and the larger room. Behind him, Mary tried desperately to protect her wares. One of Dagr’s men lunged after Merlin; Merlin grabbed a clay jug and broke it over the man’s head, but that only disoriented him—Mary rammed a second jug against his skull, and down he went, falling among the clay shards.

Mary quickly began rummaging through her supplies for another convenient blunt object—more of Dagr’s men were approaching. Her back turned, Merlin volleyed an entire stack of plates at the men, one by one—his magic more rapid-fire than any arm could have been. A broken nose, a punched gut—Merlin hadn’t cared to aim—one even unconscious—Dagr’s men retreated in humiliated surprise.

The brown-haired man who’d thrown the first punch at Dagr scuffled up to Merlin, clenching one of Dagr’s men in a headlock—he knocked Dagr’s man out by banging the guy’s head against the counter. Then he addressed Merlin:

“Pass the jug, eh?”

Curious, Merlin handed him a full jug, which the man immediately brought to his lips. Another of Dagr’s men made to avenge his comrade, but before Merlin could shout a warning, the brown-haired man lowered the jug and punched the presumptive attacker—a fierce, unerring blow, and Merlin couldn’t help but marvel at the confidence and grace of the movement.

“What do they call you, then?” the man asked after another swig from the jug.

“Merlin.”

“Gwaine,” the man said, offering his free hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

As if they weren’t in the middle of a brawl. Merlin stared—Gwaine’s entire attitude was unaccountable—and as he stared, he realized that Gwaine looked good. Handsome, yes, but more than that: although dusty, Gwaine’s hair was combed, his fair skin unblemished by constant daily sun, and his clothes well-mended—not tattered or worn or threadbare. Also, he wore a polished charm around his neck—an upside-down crescent.

Gwaine whirled, smashing the jug against his earlier attacker’s face, rendering him unconscious this time. Liquid spilled along with the shattered jug. Dagr’s men had hard heads.

“Such a waste, heh?” Gwaine said, his hand sopping.

Merlin suppressed an urge to ask Gwaine if he was drunk—or insane—and if either was contagious, for somehow, the fight suddenly seemed fun. Utterly ridiculous, in fact. Requiring music. How Arthur would hate such irreverence,

And Dagr, heretofore unchallenged, could feel his petty little empire slipping from his grasp, all because of an upstart whelp. As Arthur defeated the last of his men, Dagr withdrew a small, concealed knife.

Before Arthur could turn—before Merlin could shout a warning—Gwaine had thrown himself upon Dagr, heaving them both to the floor. The scuffle was brief. When they rolled apart, Dagr had blood on his knife, and Gwaine had a hole in his thigh.

An outcome that confused and delighted Gwaine. He rose shakily, only to stumble, knocking his head against a table and falling unconscious back to the floor.

Unable to deny defeat, Dagr dropped his knife and glowered up from the floor—neutered and neutralized—at the tavern-flies surrounding him. Arthur knelt at Gwaine’s side, and Merlin wrapped the wound with cloth torn from the shirt of one of Dagr’s nearby men.

“How is he?” Arthur asked.

“Not good,” Merlin said. “He’s losing a lot of blood.” He tightened the bandage, already bloody.

“We’ll take him to Gaius,” Arthur said. He stood. He studied Dagr, still on the floor, and asked Mary whether the town had stocks, his verdict thus rendered. A wave of glee swept through the tavern. The people dragged Dagr out to the stocks, where more townsfolk gathered, the news swift in its promulgation.

Merlin empathized. It was rare that men like Dagr suffered consequences for their cruelty, especially in places like this, that kings considered just blotches of peasantry. He swelled with pride.

But Arthur was more concerned with Gwaine, personally carrying him out of the tavern. Merlin helped drape Gwaine over the front of Arthur’s saddle—extra weight that the horse took in stride. And all the while, Arthur oversaw Dagr’s punishment, maintaining a commanding presence, even with Gwaine over his shoulder, which everyone accepted and followed.

 _Do you have to practice that posing?_ Merlin thought fondly.

Arthur mounted his horse, careful not to dislodge Gwaine. Merlin followed suit, and Dagr seethed as the townsfolk pelted him with rotten food, of which there seemed a sudden abundance.

“If this man ever troubles you again,” Arthur addressed the people, “word is to be sent to Camelot. Soldiers will be here within a day.”

“How can you make a promise like that?” Mary asked.

“Because I’m the King’s son, Prince Arthur.”

As they rode away, they could hear the exclamations of the townspeople behind them. _Prince Arthur? Prince Arthur in my tavern?_ Amazement and awe—a tale to tell for the next five years—and underneath, an underpinning that only Merlin recognized, being a peasant himself: relief.

Belief.

They were finally returning to Camelot, but maybe hunting wasn’t so bad after all.

~*~

When Gwaine awoke, he was lying in a strange bed with sunlight seeping in through a small window. Barefoot, shirtless, a light blanket up to his chest, he at least had his bag, hanging on the wall, and his crescent charm around his neck. Stale mead lingered on his tongue—familiar enough, though usually he rinsed his mouth out before sleeping.

All in all, he felt great—and grateful—and very much confused.

The door to the room opened, and Merlin entered with a tray. Gwaine at least recognized his (he hoped) benefactor.

“What am I doing in this bed?” Gwaine asked.

“You were wounded. Arthur wanted to make sure you were treated by his physician.” Merlin waited, letting Gwaine absorb the information and his surroundings.

“Arthur?” A familiar name, though not one Gwaine had encountered personally.

“Prince Arthur,” Merlin said. “You saved his life.”

“If I’d known who he was, I probably wouldn’t have.” Gwaine adjusted his position in the bed—a sharp ache in his left thigh flared, but it didn’t feel debilitating.

Merlin was giving him a curious look.

“He’s a noble,” Gwaine explained.

“Yeah,” Merlin admitted. “But he’s a good man.” He placed the tray on the bedside table.

“If you say so,” Gwaine reached for the cup of water.

“You’re a hero,” Merlin said—news that usually pleased fighters. “The King wants to thank you in person.”

Gwaine choked.

“Please,” he insisted. “No. I’ve met a few kings. Once you’ve met one, you’ve met them all.”

Years ago, Merlin would have agreed. But his time in Camelot, dealing with nobles, meeting visiting royalty—and especially his sojourn with Arthur to Cameliard—had forced him to reconsider: once you’ve met one, you’ve met _most_ of them.

“He’ll probably give you a reward,” Merlin ventured.

“I’m not interested,” Gwaine said, as though Merlin had offered him a half-dead mule. “Besides, I have everything I need right here,” he proudly patted his bag.

Modest yet preening—Merlin couldn’t get his head around it.

“Why did you help us?” Merlin asked.

“Your chances looked between slim and none,” Gwaine smiled impishly. “I guess I just kind of liked the look of those odds.” He popped a morsel of bread in his mouth and leaned back comfortably.

Gwaine was claiming a death wish? Merlin didn’t buy it—Gwaine was too assured, too amused—but too unpresuming to be in it for the glory. Far too coy—something was off—yet Merlin didn’t care. Gwaine was taking his situations in stride, with an ease and joviality unlike anyone Merlin had ever met.

Thus, despite Gwaine’s mystery, Merlin found himself quite liking the guy.

“How’s Gwaine?” Arthur asked, stretching his arms high above his head.

“Recovering,” Merlin said. He pulled back the curtains and opened one of the windows of Arthur’s chambers. Some days, Arthur couldn’t do anything for himself.

“He says he doesn’t like you,” Merlin continued. The bed was a shambles, and while Arthur had finished his breakfast, crumbs and bits of meat lay in evidence all over the table. “So, not only a great fighter, but a great judge of character.”

Arthur ignored Merlin as he put on his boots. Merlin tied back the last curtain, and in the courtyard below saw a knight, not wearing Camelot’s colors. Still astride his horse, he must have just arrived.

“We have company,” Merlin said. Arthur joined him at the window and smiled.

“Sir Darien.”

 _Old friend?_ Merlin almost asked. Sometimes he forgot he’d only been in Camelot for three years.

“He’s here for the Melee,” Arthur said to Merlin’s unasked question.

“Oh yeah—the tournament where knights run around hitting each other for no good reason.”

“If you don’t understand something, it’s unreasonable?” Arthur said, with a slight edge that Merlin interpreted as petulance.

“Exactly—was that so hard to understand?” Merlin jested. Arthur softened.

“Merlin, do you know what a battle looks like?” Arthur wrapped his belt on.

“I did find that one outside Cameliard rather memorable.” Fine—battles looked like chaos that someone tried to control as an afterthought.

“The Melee is practice,” Arthur explained. “It lets us see who can acquit himself.”

“Practice? Is Uther planning a war?”

“No, Merlin—we’re having a contest.”

With that Arthur grinned—an order for Merlin to stay put and finish his chores—and bounced out the door to go greet Sir Darien.

~*~

Dagr hated people who questioned his dominance. Obedience required intimidation, and people who were not intimidated were waiting to stab you in the back. His men understood this. They obeyed him because they feared him, and because they feared him, they knew he would take care of them—and it would be fair and just. Or else.

Prince Arthur thought he was special—this was the bugbear Dagr fed as he and his henchman Ebor rode—in the opposite direction of Camelot—upon stolen horses—to a dark-green pavilion in the depths of the forest. Arthur had not just defied Dagr, he had humiliated him—a situation Dagr refused to accept—and worse, Arthur had given that wart of a hamlet the gall to question Dagr’s dominance.

It would not stand.

So while the rest of his men continued collecting their wages, Dagr had followed a rumor and made a deal with a sorcerer, a scrawny man named Malduc. Malduc had also failed to cow before Dagr—indeed, Malduc seemed to believe he deserved some sort of reverence. A month ago, Dagr would have let it pass, but he was not in a giving mood anymore, as he and Ebor returned to the pavilion to collect their goods.

“Stulorne blades, as requested,” Malduc said. He was tall for a brat, youthful, with dark, unruly hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. Dagr and Ebor each took one of the two swords—ample lantern light shone inside the pavilion as they examined the blades.

“They’re blunt,” Ebor said.

“That is only how they appear,” Malduc said with pride.

Dagr lifted the tip of his sword to Ebor’s shirt, easily slicing the neck strings with the smallest flick. Ebor waited for Dagr’s reaction to cue him as to how he should feel about his damaged shirt—Dagr grinned like a spoiled child, so Ebor chuckled.

“And the crystals?” Dagr demanded eagerly.

“Right here,” Malduc said, grabbing a small, wooden box from a table behind him. He lifted the lid, revealing two large, opaque crystals attached to two chains. Dagr lifted one out and held it before his eyes, mesmerized.

“I haven’t activated them yet,” Malduc said. “And you haven’t shown me your money.”

Dagr glared.

“They aren’t magic yet?” Ebor said.

“He’s trying to cheat us,” Dagr blustered, stepping toward Malduc, who stood firm.

“You hold in your hands proof that I’ve upheld my part of our deal. Now you must uphold yours.”

Dagr pulled out a small pouch containing coins and threw it on the table behind Malduc. Without counting the coins—without even looking at the pouch—as if money were beneath him—Malduc tilted his head politely at Dagr and pronounced a spell, reveling in the utterance of each word.

Malduc was worse than Arthur, Dagr decided. The crystals glowed—the one in his hand even vibrated a little.

“There,” Malduc said. “The wearer of these crystals will be able to take on the form of whoever’s blood they touch.”

Dagr’s whole body exhaled. “Thank you,” he smiled.

“Thank you,” Malduc replied. He picked up the pouch of money, turning his back on Dagr and Ebor. “You know where the exit is,” he added, and Dagr aimed the Stulorne blade, intending to eviscerate Malduc from behind.

Malduc pulled a coin out of the pouch, the blade frozen in space. Dagr struggled to push forward, but only managed to move when he stepped back and lowered the sword.

“I’ve dealt with your kind before, of course,” Malduc said, laying each coin from the pouch on the table. Ebor, at a glare from Dagr, tried his luck killing Malduc, with the same result. The last coin on the table, Malduc finally turned around.

He lifted his hand as though silencing a crowd—Dagr so badly wanted to punch his face in—and a second pouch of money flew from Dagr’s belt to Malduc’s hand. Then a third from Ebor’s clothes. Malduc presented the two pouches to Dagr.

“I want my crystals back—when you return them, I return these.”

Ebor fidgeted awkwardly and Dagr bared his teeth. “Oh, I promise you,” Dagr said, squeezing the hilt of the Stulorne sword, “we’ll be back.”

“Until then,” Malduc dropped the money pouches into a sack.

Dagr motioned to Ebor and they made to leave.

“Oh, one more thing,” Malduc said when they were at the pavilion entrance, stoking Dagr’s rage. “Death is not necessary for the use of the crystals—if you were wondering.”

“We weren’t,” Dagr said.

~*~

Gwaine had never before been to Camelot. He’d heard stories, of course, which varied according to the teller, but which had never enticed him. Uther Pendragon and his son Arthur were too big in everyone’s imagination, and that made Camelot overrated—pompous and pointless.

Gwaine was restless. The breakfast tray lay empty beside him, his clothes were clean, his trousers mended, and most importantly, his leg felt much better.

He needed air.

He opened the window, and daylight pored over him, alongside a wave of odors: perfumes and flowers, roasting meat and baking bread, horses, leather, smelted metal—all the quarters of the city begging for inspection. Gwaine absorbed it all. The sun hung unseen above the roof, casting subtle shadows and gently warming the air. He listened to the medley of people, carts, and animals, trying to distinguish one from the other—but the only clear sound he heard was door opening behind him.

“Um, you need to get dressed,” Merlin said. “The King’s waiting.”

Right. Might as well get it over with.

Merlin escorted Gwaine to the Great Hall, but when they entered, Merlin hung back, disappearing off to the side. At the far end of the Hall, King Uther sat on his throne—crowned, robed, and bejeweled. On Uther’s right sat a beautiful, dark-haired, fair-skinned woman in white. Uther has a ward, Gwaine remembered. As for the King’s son, Arthur stood in front of the chair on Uther’s left, informally dressed—Gwaine half-envied the long, brown coat he wore.

As he walked forward—deliberately but not quickly—Gwaine kept his eyes on King Uther, as was proper. But he noted the high ceiling and polished wood floor, the scattering of nobles, the handful of guards, and the few servants standing against the walls. Merlin wove his way among them, keeping apace with Gwaine, until he reached Gaius, who stood near the front. Gwaine, too, stopped.

There was nothing formal about this audience, so Gwaine opted not to bow—he couldn’t lose a reward he didn’t want, after all. He doubted it would have been much of a reward anyway.

“King Uther,” Gwaine said.

Uther sized Gwaine up. “My son tells me you saved his life.”

“He did,” Arthur said.

“Then I owe you a great debt,” Uther said.

“I seek no reward,” Gwaine said. “Or favors.”

“What do you seek, then?” Uther asked.

“Just the next tavern down the road,” Gwaine smiled.

“No, you don’t,” Arthur said. “Or you wouldn’t have stepped forward at the last one.”

“You wear an interesting symbol,” Uther indicated Gwaine’s necklace. “Yours?”

“Of course,” Gwaine said—kings were so presumptuous. “I don’t seize what isn’t mine.”

“So a family heirloom,” Uther confirmed.

Gwaine paused, realizing he’d misread Uther.

“Does your mother know you’re here?” Uther asked—not a casual question.

“Are we old friends?” Morgana asked. From the side of the Hall, where half of Uther’s council stood, Ulfius spoke:

“Prince Gwaine is Queen Morcades’s eldest son.”

A quick susurrus filled the Hall—Gwaine’s posture sank in resignation and annoyance—Arthur glanced around, dumbfounded, but found a sympathetic eye only in Morgana. Merlin leaned toward Gaius, who shook his head, equally befuddled.

“Greetings, cousin, uncle,” Gwaine said drolly.

Uther stood. “If you want people to think you’re a peasant, then by all means, continue picking drunken fights—”

“He didn’t pick the fight,” Arthur interjected.

“But no peasant turns away a King’s reward,” Uther said.

“They would if they could,” Gwaine retorted. “Nobody instinctively grovels.”

“Give him _suitable_ chambers,” Uther told Arthur, and to Gwaine: “Grow up.” He sauntered out of the Hall, more important matters to attend to, and as soon as he was gone, the Hall erupted into gossip. Arthur, Morgana, and Merlin swooped in on Gwaine.

“So that’s why you helped,” Merlin said.

“No,” Gwaine said.

“He didn’t recognize me either, Merlin,” Arthur said. Merlin jumped at the opportunity to taunt him, and shook his head in faux disappointment.

“Don’t recognize your own family”—but once the words left his lips, the jest vanished, for it was a truth too weighted with implications; and it was a truth far too familiar. Merlin also knew next to nothing about his own family—he’d spoken without thinking and it was too late to retract. Anger flared in Arthur’s eyes—but his face quickly flattened, becoming an impenetrable mask of formality. Morgana glared at Merlin with accusing hostility—why did that surprise him?

“Merlin,” Arthur seethed with control, “Get Gwaine settled.”

Merlin nodded deferentially and led Gwaine out of the Hall. Arthur stared after them, ignoring the murmurs, the furtive glances bombarding him. Morgana moved closer.

“Is Morcades Uther’s sister?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “My mother’s—I know that much at least.”

“Gwaine didn’t know either,” Morgana said. She suppressed an impulse to stroke his arm, to comfort him—the palimpsest of a different life. She fiddled with her rings.

“Excuse me,” Arthur said with practiced courtesy. “I have duties.”

Morgana watched him leave, his wake filled with the petty conversations of Camelot’s court. None of it touched her. It couldn’t touch her, to her relief—and isolation. Uther thought truth could be hoarded like gold, piled in some secret chamber accessible only to him—and these imbeciles followed him, groveled, agreed.

It was wrong.

~*~

Eager for the Melee, Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan had taken every shortcut they could. Yet still they were running late. Experienced in tourneys, jousts, and contests, they shared a love for the finer things in life, and distaste for the actual brutalities of war. Knighthood, for them, was a civilized affair. They slept peacefully each night, ate meals sitting on plush red cushions, and leisured about before packing up their tents and moving on. Today was no different.

“How much further would you say it is to Camelot?” Sir Ethan asked, lounging on his cushion as he finished his breakfast. The fire was dying before him, and the air brisk. They’d camped in the middle of the forest, away from the main roads, where trees and brush blocked much of the sun.

“Half a day’s ride,” Sir Oswald said, standing to stretch his legs. “The journey is almost over.”

“It is for you,” Dagr declared as he and Ebor ambushed the knights.

~*~

“I don’t need some pretentious idiot’s idea of ‘proper’ quarters,” Gwaine said as they walked down the corridor.

“That’s good, because we don’t have any,” Merlin said. “They’ve all been taken for the Melee. Are you competing?”

“Might have to now,” Gwaine grimaced.

“If you get hurt again, should we save you?” Merlin asked lightly.

“What?”

“You said you wouldn’t have helped Arthur if you’d known he was noble—which means that you couldn’t tell he was noble, which means that he really looked liked a nobody—that’s going straight to his head,” Merlin complained.

Gwaine had no idea what Merlin was trying to accomplish with the conversation. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Yes, you implied that nobles aren’t worth saving, so—”

“I am not losing a _Melee_ ,” Gwaine said. “But if I treat people like disobedient dogs just because they don’t have a pedigree, then yes, please question my worth. You define yourself by what you do, not by who your great-grandfather was. Where are we going?”

“Tour of Camelot. By then, Arthur will have decided where to put you.”

“He told _you_ to get me settled.”

“Yes, but what he meant was, Get out of my sight before I bludgeon you.”

“How noble.”

Morgana hadn’t been in Geoffrey’s library in years—ever since Uther and the noblewomen of his court had so courteously informed her that her reading habits were untoward. Boethius, Ptolemy, Ovid, Plato, Herodotus, and Hypatia, the trivium and quadrivium—her father had indulged her curiosity with fondness, and he’d dismissed ‘concerns’ as jealousy. But then he died, and Uther didn’t want to deal with accusations of a different kind of witch—the noblewomen took far too much umbrage at the range of her studies, and the indomitable Uther capitulated. They made Geoffrey deny her.

Now she meandered among the stacks feeling like a thief—and like a child come home. Her eyes lingered on spines and scrolls. Several tables were piled with parchment and paper, some vellum, ink, quills; completed quires and naked sheaves; boards and cords sat by a sewing frame, along with needles and thread, leather, a hammer. She touched nothing. She would not let nostalgia distract her—somewhere in this library were the records of noble families: Proof.

Geoffrey stood in a shadowed recess, wiping an emptied shelf with a dirty cloth. He muttered curses at spiders and dust, and didn’t hear Morgana approach. When she said his name, he swiveled so abruptly that he nearly tripped over the books piled on the floor.

“Lady Morgana,” he said, pleasantly surprised. “How lovely to see you.”

“Where do you keep the records of our lineages?” she got to the point.

“Oh—over this way. How are you?”

She didn’t know how to answer. She had no answer. She remembered conversations with Geoffrey as being fluid affairs, the leisurely rooting out of ideas. But things had changed.

He led her to the opposite wall, to shelves neatly lined with codices. He grabbed an older volume and placed it for her on a nearby dais.

“There we are,” he said, avuncular as ever. Morgana had never seen her pedigree before. She’d never asked. She stared at the leather cover, stamped with her father’s crest—the crest on the bracelet Morgause had given her—a crest so unfamiliar.

“Ah—yes,” Geoffrey said. “Lord Gorlois began using your mother’s family crest after she died. But that is his.”

“I know,” she said, barely audible, tracing the design with her finger. She opened the book and flipped through the pages until she came to the last one with any writing—the one that held her own name. The one that indicated Gorlois had only two children, both by his wife, Rhiannon: Elayne, dead, and Morgana.

Morgana fingered Elayne’s name—she’d have been only six when she died. If she had actually died.

“Your father was devastated,” Geoffrey said. “Blamed himself.”

“Is this complete?” Morgana asked. “Or just official?”

“I don’t follow,” Geoffrey said, seeming genuinely confused.

“Never mind,” Morgana said. “But I was actually interested in Igraine’s family.”

“Igraine’s?”

“Yes. Queen Igraine. Uther’s wife. Her sister’s son appeared in court today. Surprised everyone—haven’t you heard?”

“No, I’m afraid news doesn’t always reach me quickly,” Geoffrey said, closing the book on Morgana’s family. “What’s his name?”

Was it her imagination, or was Geoffrey being evasive?

“His mother is Morcades,” she offered—she could play this game too.

“Gwaine or Agravaine?” Geoffrey put the book back on the shelf.

“Gwaine,” she said. Perhaps her suspicions were unfair.

“I’ll note it,” Geoffrey said. “I’m sure he’s more than welcome, although I hope he wasn’t expecting any special recognition—King Uther makes everyone prove himself, as even Prince Arthur can attest.” He pulled down another volume.

This one was much thicker than hers. The cover depicted a boar between two crescents. She opened it to Arthur’s page, about two-thirds of the way through. Arthur, the only child of Uther and Igraine; Uther, the youngest of three sons, mother Lucia, father Bricus; Igraine, the middle child of five, two sons flanking three daughters, mother Gwenllion, father Amlawdd Wledig. Morgana flipped to the previous page, which included Arthur’s cousins—sure enough, there was Gwaine, oldest child of Igraine's sister Morcades, and Gwyar, deceased. Gwaine had a brother, Agravaine, and a sister, Elaine. Arthur and Gwaine had other cousins, but Igraine had no other children.

So this was how truth was buried—the omission of a pen. Morgause did not exist in Geoffrey’s records, therefore she did not exist. Such simple sorcery.

Morgana closed the book, carefully, mournfully, caressing its leather as if that would give her support.

Geoffrey noticed her despondency. “Was there something else I could help you find?” he asked.

“No,” Morgana said. “Thank you, Geoffrey, but no, there was nothing else.”

Just my sisters.

On the ramparts of the inner wall, Uther watched Gwaine and Merlin walk through the lower town, talking jovially. He would have to speak with Arthur about the appropriateness of having a servant—even one’s own personal servant—accompany a visiting prince. Gwaine surveyed the town with remarkable curiosity, however, and seemed to appreciate his guide.

Footsteps approached Uther from behind, on the left: Gaius. Guards maintained a respectful distance on either side. Below, a visiting knight stopped Gwaine, pressing him into conversation.

“How did you know who he was, really?” Gaius asked, following Uther’s gaze. “The crescent isn’t exactly a unique symbol.”

“Spies and scouts, Gaius. Of course I knew Morcades’s son had run off.” On the street, Gwaine tried to maneuver around the knight. Merlin waited. From this distance, it was hard to gauge whether the knight was rudely imposing, or if Gwaine was rudely dismissing.

“Does Morcades still follow the Old Religion?” Gaius asked.

“Morcades never followed any religion.”

“ _Igraine_ never followed any religion. Morcades—”

“—is unwisely tolerant,” Uther said. “But not given to subordinating herself to anyone’s dictates.”

“Yes, I remember hearing she was proud. So Gwaine’s family heirloom?”

“His father’s, I believe. Gaius, if I were going to arrest him for sorcery, I’d have done so. I realize current circumstances may induce paranoia in the weak-minded, but my nephew has no more to fear than anyone else who behaves.”

Gaius nodded, as if to the rhythm of a breeze. They watched Gwaine finally extricate himself from the knight and continue along with Merlin.

“Do you think he recognized Arthur?” Uther asked.

“That doesn’t seem to be the case,” Gaius said. “How would he?”

“What do you think he knows?”

“About what?” Gaius asked. “You think Morcades told him something? About magic—or Igraine?”

Uther studied the crowd below, Gwaine and Merlin swallowed by it.

“Sire?”

“No.”

Uther woke from his reverie. “Ghosts have a habit of appearing at the worst times,” he said. “And you’re right, I don’t want any lies being spread, especially to Arthur—his mother’s memory is precious to him.”

“Sire,” Gaius bowed his head, and Uther returned to the castle.

In general, Gwen enjoyed tournaments—and feasts—even treaty negotiations brought all kinds of interesting people from all kinds of places. Accents, clothing, jewelry, news—whatever the occasion, for its duration, Camelot expanded in every way.

The Melee was too impersonal and chaotic for her tastes; nonetheless she soaked in the rumors and gossip—bets on the winner, tales of past exploits, assessments of strengths and weaknesses—a great citywide conversation—a topic for anyone.

Today, the sunshine and the constant buzz of preparation lifted her spirits. In the past, when some high Lady had insisted upon Gwen’s participation in readying Camelot for an event, Morgana outright refused; this time, when Lady Marcella demanded Gwen join the cadre of servants— _she’s your maid, not your lady-in-waiting_ —Morgana rolled her eyes and brusquely waved her assent.

Lady Marcella thought she had triumphed victoriously.

Gwen worried Morgana was retreating further into herself. For reasons beyond the sorceress Morgause using and kidnapping her; for reasons more than Merlin poisoning. . .

Well. Merlin had done what he had to do to save everyone.

So despite a full basket of bunting in each hand—and being treated like an untrained dog by Lady Marcella—Gwen stepped lightly to the arena, letting people’s opinions of Morgana be their own damn problems.

“Paint’s not dry,” an elderly man told her when she asked where he wanted the bunting. “Just put ‘em down.”

“I need the baskets,” Gwen apologized. “I still have to deliver flowers.”

He grumbled something incoherent, but softened at Gwen’s expression.

“With all the prizes going out, you’d think the King could afford a couple extra baskets,” he said. “Put the buntin’ on the seats—we’ll have to shake ‘em out anywise.”

Gwen smiled and dipped a small curtsey. Carpenters and sweepers and other servants flit about like bees on a rosebush. A wiry stranger had stationed himself at the entrance, and eight guards paced the stands. Gwen placed the bunting on a nearby bench—which she hoped was out of everyone’s way—brushing off the wood beforehand.

As she left, the stranger at the entrance fell into step beside her.

“Are you so considerate in all your doings?” he asked, brown eyes staring.

“What? Um.”

Tall, sinewy, and pale, he wore a fine cotton shirt of Tyrian purple, but a fraying belt, clean (but plain) brown trousers, and expensive (but very worn) boots.

“I-I don’t really have doings,” she said. “I’m just a servant. I just try to do things well.”

“You succeed.” He maneuvered in front of her, forcing her to stop. His dark hair was growing long, and a golden torc peeked out from the collar of his shirt. Gwen squeezed the basket handles and swayed forward—as though to take a step—hoping he’d move out of the way.

Instead, he unwrapped her fingers and lifted her hand, sliding the basket up her forearm. He brushed off her palm, her fingers, her wrist; his hands rough and calloused.

“A teacher once told me,” Malduc said—he had a small but prominent scar on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger that scrunched as he rubbed her wrist with his thumb—“that the smallest gesture proves your substance.”

He raised her hand toward his lips, but she jerked away.

“I have to go,” she said mechanically; “I’ll get in trouble,” as explanation. She hurried around him, leaving as quickly as she could without running—she didn’t want to be rude. Just once, she glanced over her shoulder. He wasn’t following. He waved and smiled wistfully, rooted to the spot.

She corralled her thoughts toward her next task: delivering flowers.

“I think there’s someone behind us,” Merlin said to Gwaine, implying that perhaps they move to the side. They’d spent the past hour in the lower town, which was burgeoning with people—the denizens of Camelot, visiting knights, patrolling guards, merchants and entertainers and opportunists—the genuine value of the Melee, to Merlin’s mind.

“He can go around,” Gwaine said, casually glancing back at the fuming knight on his horse.

Merlin didn’t want to argue with Gwaine. In fact, he rather wanted to see what Gwaine would do if this knight tried to force their obedience—Gwaine was suppressing a smile—and they were all three heading toward the inner courtyard of the castle. Arthur would probably reprimand Merlin for disrespecting a knight; it would be worth it.

But no brouhaha ensued. The knight trotted past, close enough that he would have knocked Gwaine over if Gwaine didn’t have extraordinary composure and balance.

“Oh,” Gwaine said with mock surprise. “Was he somebody _important_?”

They’d arrived at the gate separating the upper and lower towns. They passed under the shadow of its arch just as the knight dismounted in the courtyard.

“Aglovale!”

At his name, the knight’s demeanor softened, and he embraced Sir Lamorack, who’d run to greet him. Arthur jogged down the castle steps to join them.

“Prince Arthur, allow me to introduce my brother, Aglovale,” Lamorack said.

“Welcome to Camelot.” Arthur shook Aglovale’s hand. Spotting Merlin and Gwaine, Arthur extended his arm, summoning them to the group. “This is my cousin Gwaine, and my servant, Merlin.”

“Hello,” Merlin said. Gwaine eyed both men—a bit distant, even hostile, Merlin thought, but no one else seemed to notice.

“Pellinore’s sons,” Gwaine said neutrally, offering his hand.

“Gwaine, son of Gwyar—my father speaks highly of him—it’s an honor to meet you,” Lamorack beamed, warmly grasping Gwaine’s hand in both of his.

Gwaine bobbed his head politely.

“Sir Lamorack is staying in Camelot for a while,” Arthur said.

“Learning from the best,” Lamorack said. Aglovale, too, shook Gwaine’s hand.

“I didn’t realize you were nobility,” he said defensively.

“Yes, I know, he doesn’t look like much,” Arthur said. “But wait until you see him in action.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Lamorack grinned.

Of course, Merlin thought—what could possibly be more fun than pounding each other’s heads in.

Gwaine bobbed his head politely.

“Until then,” Aglovale said, signaling a servant to take his horse.

As the brothers walked away, Merlin overheard Aglovale ask, “Do they always introduce their servants here?”

Arthur swatted Gwaine’s arm—a gesture meaning ‘follow me’—and Merlin cocked his ear for Lamorack’s reply: “No, just Prince Arthur and Lady Morgana.”

“Merlin,” Arthur called.

~*~

“Is there some feud we should know about?” Morgana asked at the feast that night.

“Morgana,” Uther sighed. He sat at the head of the Hall, at the middle of a long table, Gwaine on his right, Morgana on his left. A perfect arrangement for him, Morgana thought—blocking her.

“How will we keep up our noble family traditions if we don’t know about them?” she said. Gwaine scoffed into his wine, tilting his head to drain the chalice.

“Morgana, Gwaine wouldn’t know the first thing about _your_ family traditions,” Arthur said from her other side.

“Indeed,” Uther said. “Tell me about your travels,” he said to Gwaine, shifting in his chair and showing Morgana the back of his shoulder to signal that she was not to be a part of this conversation.

“Congratulations on currying your father’s favor,” she hissed in Arthur’s ear.

“What is your problem?” Arthur asked, immediately losing interest in any response, as he spotted Sir Oswald and his friend Sir Ethan entering the Hall.

The two had paused at the doors to adjust. Neither man had ever been inside a castle before, surrounded by wealthy nobles, sumptuous food and drink—acknowledged and accepted. And why should they not be accepted, wearing the faces of proven breeding, as they were? Dagr and Ebor stood at the entrance—concealed for all to see—acclimating.

Long tables ran parallel to the walls, knights of all crests seated on both sides of each, filling the Hall with raucous laughter. Servants flowed around, carrying more food and drink. Ebor absorbed the aromas, spellbound; Dagr latched onto Arthur, seated at the King’s table at the opposite end of the Hall.

“Oswald!” someone called. Dagr paid no attention.

Prince Arthur sat one person away from the King, a beautiful dark-haired woman between them. Directly on the King’s right—a place of honor—sat the interloper, dressed like a lord in purple and black. Gifts from the meddlesome Prince, no doubt. Some old man sat on his other side, while Arthur’s village companion stood behind, attending the Prince. Arthur raised his chalice toward Dagr, and Dagr smirked.

“Oswald!” the voice insisted.

“That’s you,” Ebor whispered.

“ _I know_ , ‘Ethan’,” Dagr sneered. They made their way toward three watching knights, sitting at the long table to the right.

“Cadoc’s pining for you,” a clean-shaven man in dark green remarked.

“Late as usual,” Sir Cadoc slapped Dagr’s back as Dagr and Ebor sat down. Two goblets appeared on the table in front of them.

“Must’ve taken one of his short-cuts,” said the man in dark-green.

“Can’t come early—you’d think we weren’t ourselves,” Ebor joked, provoking a sideways glare from Dagr. The three knights laughed, and Cadoc reached his hand across Dagr.

“Cadoc,” he said, and Ebor took his hand.

“Ah yes,” Dagr said. “This is Sir Ethan, a great friend.”

“Sir Taran,” Cadoc indicated the man in green. Taran raised his goblet.

“And this is Sir Madoc—he was just knighted last year. Madoc, Sir Oswald here frequents every tournament he can, anytime, anywhere.”

“Haven’t yet met a fight I haven’t loved,” Dagr said as he shook Madoc’s hand.

“An honor to meet you both,” Madoc replied.

By this time, Merlin had navigated through the crowd to Dagr’s side.

“Sir Oswald?” Merlin said. “Prince Arthur sends his greetings and apologizes for missing your arrival. And whenever you’re ready, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Already found quarters, just fine,” Dagr turned his back to Merlin.

“Sorry?” Merlin said.

“You deaf?” Dagr said over his shoulder. “I said we got a place already.”

“A nice place,” Ebor said.

“Oh,” Merlin said. “All right, then.”

He faded in among the other servants, but paused to eavesdrop when he heard Sir Taran ask, “Did someone steal your wine on the road?”

“No,” Dagr said, confused.

“Then what’s gotten into you?” Sir Cadoc asked. “What was that?”

“He’s a servant,” Dagr insisted.

“ _Prince Arthur’s_ servant,” Taran said. “Who’s managed to stay Prince Arthur’s servant.”

“So?” Dagr said.

“So, you’re Sir Civility—Sir Decorum,” Taran said, concluding, “You must’ve had a rough journey.”

“I can fix that,” Dagr said, grinning broadly and lifting his goblet.

~*~

Unable to convince Arthur that Oswald had refused castle chambers, Merlin found himself, in the early hours of dawn, knocking at the home of Timaeus, a spice merchant of some prominence. A large house, by lower-town standards, it stood midway between the upper wall and the outer wall protecting Camelot, and when a young boy answered, Merlin peeked through the half-open door, looking for the two misplaced knights.

What he saw were signs of an occupation: Helmets and hauberks on the table, clothing on the floor, muddy boots on chairs—Oswald and Ethan had strewn themselves everywhere.

“Yes?” Wide blue eyes stared up at Merlin beneath a mess of dark, dust-coated hair.

“Hello,” Merlin said, but the boy stood unmoving until his mother came up behind him.

“Felix,” she shooed him away from the door, and he returned to a collection of rocks on the floor beneath a window.

“I beg your pardon,” she said to Merlin. “Welcome to our home—how may we be of service to Prince Arthur?” Behind her, a dark-haired, dark-complexioned girl sat at the table, chin on folded arms, glaring at a snoring figure laying in one of two beds.

“Sorry?” Merlin jerked his attention back to the woman, her own dark hair coiled around her head.

“You’re the Prince’s servant,” she said. “It’s Merlin, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Merlin smiled. “Didn’t think anyone ever noticed me.”

“In our trade, it pays to remember faces and names.”

“What’s yours?” Merlin asked.

“Octavia. What can I do for you?”

Merlin was not accustomed to such respect from someone who was in many ways better off than him—at least, than how he grew up—was richer than him. He re-gathered himself: “I was just wondering how your guests are doing.”

“They’re mean,” the girl said from the table, practicing an evil eye at the man still in bed.

“Flavia,” Octavia shot a warning look to her daughter. “It’s an honor to have them,” she told Merlin.

 _They’re mean_ , Flavia mouthed at Merlin behind her mother’s back. The boy, Felix, remained focused on his rocks until the figure in bed snorted awake.

“Why is it so bright in here?” Ethan demanded as he sat up, shoving his blankets away. He wore only trousers, and a strange crystal dangled at his sternum. Merlin tried not to stare—but the crystal—something about it . . . Ethan covered his eyes and smacked his tongue around to clear a bad taste from his mouth.

“Finally up, I see,” Oswald strolled around the corner, shirtless and drying his hair. A similar crystal hung against his chest, wet from Oswald’s bath. Oswald grabbed a shirt from off a chest of drawers and threw it at Ethan. “Get dressed,” he ordered. Ethan tugged it on and Oswald hunted for his own.

“Allow me?” Merlin lifted a hauberk from the table (Flavia, undisturbed by Merlin, narrowed her eyes at Oswald), and unveiled a blue shirt underneath. Oswald strode to the table, staring down Merlin as though by finding the shirt, Merlin had challenged him. Merlin stared back innocently.

“Does Princess want something?” Oswald said, crossing his arms. By doing so, he covered the crystal he wore, but Merlin suspected that was incidental, that Oswald’s intent was to demonstrate his properly pompous and noble displeasure.

“Yes,” Merlin smiled obsequiously. “He just wanted to make sure you were suitable for your quarters.”

“I expect you gentlemen are hungry,” Octavia butted in front of Merlin, smiling genially—impressively, Merlin thought.

“Starving,” Oswald told his host and grabbed his shirt from the table.

“Are these my boots?” Ethan grumbled quietly, examining a road-mucked boot. “These _are_ my boots. These are _my_ boots.”

“It’s your dirty goblet, too,” Flavia said, without comment from her mother. Ethan looked at Flavia, at Merlin, at Octavia, finally registering their presence. He noticed a goblet lying on its side on the floor. He lifted it upside-down above his head, staring into its emptiness. Octavia walked over with a cup of water, switching it for the goblet in Ethan’s hand. She grabbed both of Ethan’s boots.

“Brush them off, Flavia,” she said quietly, with a look that brooked no argument. Flavia glared at her mother, she glared at Ethan, and she glared at Oswald, fully dressed, sitting down at the table.

“Good girl,” Oswald said.

 _So rude,_ she mouthed to Merlin as she stomped out the door, boots in hand. Merlin wished he had time to commiserate. Octavia placed two goblets in Merlin’s hands.

“They’re not ours,” she said apologetically, leading him to the door. Both goblets were from the palace.

Merlin took one last look at Oswald and Ethan, their crystals now hidden beneath their shirts; he glanced sympathetically at Octavia; and he left, brooding on the two crystals as he returned to Gaius’s chambers.

“You’re up early,” Gaius said. “And I see you stopped by the kitchens—no food?”

“What—oh. No, these wandered off from the feast last night.”

“Oh,” Gaius said, not understanding, but not asking further, since a servant had entered carrying a tray of oatcakes and cheese in one hand, meat and apples in the other, and a basket of bread around his arm. Dried sweat stained his face. He placed the trays and basket carefully on the table and stiffly bowed to Gaius, then Merlin.

“I’ll admit one good thing about the Melee is the food,” Merlin said. He bit into an oatcake as he retrieved a magic book hidden behind other books on Gaius’s shelves.

“Merlin,” Gaius warned, making sure his chamber door, and Merlin’s, were both closed. Merlin was getting far too lax and careless for Gaius’s comfort.

Merlin sat down at the table, glanced at the door to his room—behind which Gwaine still slept—and opened the book. “Do you know anything about magic crystals?” he asked Gaius.

“A little,” Gaius said. “Why?” He sat down and filled a plate with food.

“Oswald and Ethan are both wearing one.”

“ _Magic_ crystals? How could you tell?”

Merlin knew Gaius was asking him to describe a sensation—an echo, a vibration, radiation—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t explain why the crystals bothered him—why they struck him as a mystery he had to unlock. Not without sounding nosy.

“You’re assuming,” Gaius concluded.

“Will it hurt to check?” Merlin flipped through some pages to the chapter on crystals—unfortunately, it was only on their healing properties. He flopped back, disheartened. Gaius discreetly moved the book to his lap.

“Maybe it’s about winning the Melee,” Merlin said aloud. “Preventing injury or fatigue.”

“Why wear them now—why not wait until the Melee itself?” Gaius asked.

“To get used to them?” Merlin guessed. “They’re not exactly small.” Not a terrible supposition, though it didn’t satisfy Gaius—and Merlin had to admit, he didn’t like it either. He was missing something. He grabbed another oatcake and some cheese, ruminating as he chewed. The door to his room opened and Gwaine stumbled out, rubbing his face and eyes.

“Too much to drink?” Merlin said.

“Not enough,” Gwaine groaned, then chuckled. He plopped down heavily at the table and snagged a piece of quail. Merlin rose to fetch him a cup.

“You know, I can get you real chambers,” Merlin said as he poured water from a ewer.

“You think that I think I’m too good for you room?”

“No,” Merlin had to parse what Gwaine had said—accused, almost—and Gaius had no insight. “I think I like my bed, and there are some chambers in the castle that went unclaimed.”

Gwaine seemed to consider it, staring downcast at the food in his hands.

“But we’re happy to entertain guests,” Merlin said. “If you’re comfortable here.”

“I’m much more comfortable here, Merlin, thank you,” Gwaine said. “Gaius, you too, I mean it—thank you.”

“Yeah,” Merlin said. It wasn’t really a problem—sharing and making do to help each other was just how he grew up.

“You might have to learn to pour your own water, though,” Gaius said. Merlin had placed the ewer on the table and sat down again. Gwaine dropped his head and chuckled, conceding Gaius’s point. He raised his cup of water in a silent toast, and Merlin and Gaius joined in.

By midmorning, skirmishes had begun outside the walls of Camelot—friendly fights that guarded, for the most part, against major injury, and let the participants flex their muscles and earn bragging rights. It was ludicrous, in Merlin’s opinion, but Arthur honored the peacocking as if it were some sort of rite.

“Sure you don’t want to join the pleasantries?” Merlin asked Gwaine. Three crowds had formed in an open space beyond the city, each filled with knights and squires and peasants. Between two of the crowds, a pair of knights on horseback rushed toward each other, lances aimed.

“Lion wins,” Gwaine said. The shield of one jouster depicted a red lion on yellow background, while the other’s shield had a yellow gryphon on green. The lion unhorsed the gryphon.

“Show off,” Merlin said.

Arthur was in the third crowd, where knights fought on foot with sword and shield. Merlin had no idea who was fighting, but Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan stood beside Arthur. Sir Cadoc, too, was nearby, ignoring the skirmish to watch Arthur and Oswald.

“How’s Sir Oswald behaving?” Merlin startled Cadoc.

“Wha—fine—wonderful,” Cadoc stuttered unconvincingly. He looked Gwaine over.

“Yes, this is Arthur’s cousin Gwaine,” Merlin said. To Gwaine: “Sir Cadoc is one of Camelot’s best knights.”

“An honor to meet you,” Cadoc shook Gwaine’s hand. Oswald and Ethan sauntered away from Arthur.

“Likewise,” Gwaine said.

Merlin excused himself and joined Arthur. Oswald and Ethan elbowed their way to another spot in the crowd—up front, with an unobstructed view of the ongoing fight.

“Merlin,” Arthur stated, as though Merlin were unexpected—whatever had just occurred, it bothered Arthur.

“Is Oswald still being an ass?” Merlin said.

“Merlin,” Arthur said impatiently—and gave up. “Stop judging things you don’t understand. Whatever Oswald’s problem is, I’m not losing sleep over it.”

Arthur lied—whenever it was a question of honor or duty or amity, Arthur didn’t stand by and let things fester. Yet Arthur hadn’t done anything ignoble or insulting as far as Merlin could tell.

Back where he’d left them, Gwaine and Cadoc were commenting on the fight. The surrounding crowd shouted mockery or encouragement. Oswald and Ethan yelled loudly, vehemently, full of bloodlust. Beside Merlin, Arthur watched with detachment. Merlin had no interest in the skirmishes—a sentiment shared by one lone kindred spirit: a dark-haired man whose attention was locked on Oswald and Ethan. A man Merlin’s own age, pale-skinned, wiry, dressed well enough for a minor noble—and entirely unremarkable.

Yet he was uncomfortably familiar.

Merlin couldn’t place him. Someone won; cheers erupted and _too-bads_ abounded; Oswald met the man’s gaze and sneered.

And the man, thoroughly satisfied, walked away.

The skirmishes petered out as the sun hit its zenith. By that time, servants had erected pavilions and were bringing out blankets, cushions, tables, and chairs. Squires removed armor. Some shields were set aside for repair or refuse, others hung proudly in fighting condition. Ladies descended upon the field of play, smiling and soothing—in some cases wooing—and making general pleasantries.

Morgana, however, had not come for such tedium. She ignored the bustle as she walked through it, looking for Gwaine. Uther was back in the castle, conferring with Gylberd, his seneschal—perhaps now she would get some answers.

That Gwaine might have none was a possibility too depressing to consider. Her cage was more than the walls of Camelot, it was Uther’s lies, too. She would break them.

Music had started. Servants were pouring wine and water, and carrying baskets of bread, plates of quail. Apples. Cheese. Morgana saw knights wrapping cut fingers as she headed toward the largest pavilion. Knights splashed their faces, washed their hands, rubbed their shoulders. Laughed and groaned. A young lady coquettishly wiped a clean-shaven jaw with her kerchief. Off to the side, Gaius examined the calf of one of Camelot’s knights, who winced in pain, and Gwen stood by attending them. Morgana hurried along, not wanting to be seen, and not knowing, really, why—she told herself it was just her need to question Gwaine.

But then she heard the overbearing voice of Lady Marcella:

“Guinevere!”

Gwen, Gaius, and the knight looked up as one. Lady Marcella stood a few yards away. She wore a bright red and gold dress, multiple necklaces, and a jeweled hairnet over her gathered grey hair. Having received everyone’s attention, she moved no closer—as if doing so were beneath her—and servants carefully avoided blocking her line of sight.

“We need water—be of use,” she ordered. Gwen could not hide her irritation—she glared at Lady Marcella as though responding to a spoiled child. Morgana smiled with pride.

“Mind your place, girl,” Marcella snapped at Gwen.

“Lady Marcella, Gwen is assisting me,” Gaius said, with none of his usual deference.

“Marcella,” Morgana approached, “surely you don’t think we should abandon one of Camelot’s gallant protectors?”

“I think, surely, that an apprentice would be more appropriate,” Marcella said, unconsciously lifting up on her toes to meet Morgana’s eye—and not quite succeeding.

“Let’s respect the expert,” Morgana said. “Fetch your own water.”

Morgana now stood in Lady Marcella’s way. Gaius, too, had paused his ministrations to shield Gwen. Lady Marcella assessed her situation: affronting the King’s ward and the King’s physician over a mere servant.

“As Lady Morgana wishes,” Marcella said, shoring up her pride and striding off. Once she was out of earshot, the knight whistled in amusement. Gaius and Gwen turned back to him.

“Your ankle’s twisted,” Gaius said. “I’m afraid there’ll be no Melee for you.”

“I’ll let you get on with it,” Morgana said to Gwen. Gwen smiled weakly—she didn’t know what else to do—she wanted to say something—to accompany Morgana—but she was committed now, to the task before her.

Gaius noticed her regret. “I really do appreciate the help, Gwen. But if—”

“No, no it’s no problem,” Gwen said. Morgana had already disappeared into the crowd anyway.

The distance to the largest pavilion—presumably Arthur’s pavilion—felt to Morgana like it had doubled. People were everywhere. Servants, out of habit and instinct, moved around her, lowering their eyes and bowing their heads and reciting _My Lady_ ; knights and nobles barely noticed her. Morgana navigated around them, irked at their self-absorption and obliviousness.

All her tension evaporated when she spotted Arthur’s pavilion—he was laughing with Lamorack and Aglovale, Sir Darien from Wight, and several others she didn’t recognize. Gwaine sat inside the pavilion too, but off to one side, talking to Lady Ettare. Morgana halted, wondering if she should interrupt. Ettare twisted a white kerchief in her hands, and alternated between straightening up proudly and staring aggrieved at the ground; Gwaine drank from his mug. When Ettare wouldn’t notice, his eyes darted Arthur’s way, signaling for respite.

Good, Morgana thought: interrupt.

Merlin beat her to it. Suddenly standing over Gwaine, Merlin—shouldn’t he be yipping at Arthur’s heels?—said something to Gwaine, with an apologetic expression thrown at Ettare. Gwaine kissed Ettare’s hand and walked off with Merlin. Lady Vawse quickly swooped in, occupying Gwaine’s abandoned spot. Demanding gossip, no doubt.

“Morgana,” Arthur called out to her. “Come here—the men want to meet you.”

How she wished she could shove Merlin off a cliff. How she wished she could just run away—she loathed playing King Uther’s Beautiful Ward—but the dread of returning to her chambers in defeat pushed a smile to her face and moved her feet forward to the free seat beside Arthur.

And as Morgana headed into the pavilion (once the men stopped trying to woo and impress her, it wasn’t so bad), Merlin and Gwaine headed out.

“What was so awful about talking to a beautiful woman, that you just had to be rescued?” Merlin teased as the crowd enfolded them.

“Nothing,” Gwaine said, ignoring Merlin’s upbeat tone. He lifted his mug to his lips, pretending it wasn’t empty. “Although, she told me she’d been cursed by a jilted warlock—that sounded awful.”

“Yeah,” Merlin sobered. “I heard about that—I wasn’t here when it happened.”

“Arthur out seeking adventures and renown?” Many a knight glanced at Gwaine as they passed, but Gwaine made point of acknowledging only the servants.

“Hunting a vicious manticore, actually,” Merlin replied. “Not as honorable as avoiding renown—and sobriety—but that’s Arthur for you.”

Gwaine raised his empty mug to Merlin with a grin. And once again, Merlin was struck by Gwaine’s determined insolence, the insistence on not being proper while still behaving—as if Gwaine’s personal code of honor were trying to slap the pretensions of knighthood in the face. They’d stopped walking, Merlin’s scrutiny making Gwaine uncomfortable.

“So did he catch it—the manticore?” Gwaine asked. He gave his empty mug to a passing servant, saying _thank you_.

“We caught up with it, yeah.” They started walking again, toward the lower town. “But a knight of Cameliard killed it.”

“Cameliard—Leodogran?” For some reason, this amused Gwaine. “Prince Arthur of Camelot fought with Leodogran over a manticore?”

“What? No— _no_. We were guests in Cameliard.”

 _Oh really_ , Gwaine’s face demanded, still amused.

“Well, incognito guests—long story—my point is, that’s where we were when Pelleas was in Camelot. There was nothing I could do to help Lady Ettare.”

“She doesn’t think anyone can help. But she wants someone to try anyway,” Gwaine shook his head, his sympathy shifting to disdain. “Oh, but she only trusts Camelot’s intolerance—‘who but King Uther can protect her’.”

“Intolerance . . . for magic?” Merlin asked, daring to hope for an ally in Gwaine. “You don’t hate magic? Is that why your family’s never been to Camelot before?”

“Talk about a long story,” Gwaine snorted. “But you’ll have to ask my mother because I stopped listening years ago.” Something about Merlin’s demeanor gave him pause. “Does it bother you, that the family’s a bit estranged?”

“It’s just curious.”

“I thought it was mutual,” Gwaine said. “Philosophical differences—because Uther forbids the Faith.”

“The Faith? You mean the Old Religion?”

“Is there a new religion?” Gwaine gibed. He spotted a tavern, already overflowing with patrons. When Merlin wavered, Gwaine confirmed, “Yes, the Old Religion.”

“Magic is legal in your kingdom?”

“Of course not. People who use magic without understanding what they’re doing, it causes imbalances,” Gwaine raised his voice as he weaved through the throng—Merlin had to work to keep up. “But that’s not the Faith. According to my mother, Uther doesn’t understand that.”

“What do you think?” Merlin asked as Gwaine signaled for two ales.

“About the Faith? Is this a test?” Gwaine eyed Merlin with amusement. “Is Uther suspicious of me—if I start praying, will it get me out of the Melee?”

“And into the dungeons.”

“You’d bust me out.”

Yes, Merlin probably would. Their ales arrived and he wrapped his hands around the mug. Gwaine was likely to get them both into trouble, and he didn’t care. The voices of the patrons roared around them like a waterfall. The room stank of sweat and leather. A couple of squires glanced surreptitiously at Gwaine—but it was Merlin most of the regulars stared at, including the barkeep.

“Guess knowing Arthur makes you famous,” Gwaine said.

“I’m nobody,” Merlin said. ”Unlike some.”

“And yet, you’re the one garnering all the attention.”

Merlin couldn’t help but feel a small wave of pride, but the attention was transient, he knew.

“You deserve it, Merlin. In the end, titles mean nothing—it’s what’s inside that counts.”

Merlin wished he could believe like Gwaine—he certainly agreed with Gwaine. The tavern turned back to its own affairs, dousing his flicker of fame. Friends in high places notwithstanding, Merlin was still just another peasant, after all.

~*~

Like a butterfly among dung beetles—

Malduc watched Gwen pump water into two buckets. Her arms worked rhythmically, droplets dotting her skirt, her shoes, the dirt. Both buckets full, she cracked her wrists and squatted.

—her lips slightly parted, her cheeks flushed, her overworked eyes patient and radiant—

Gwen fit the yoke to her shoulders and straightened up with practiced ease. She smiled a greeting to the man nearby, who replaced her at the pump as she headed out toward the tents and pavilions.

—such grace and poise. The buckets swayed gently, in time with her hips, and the mud on her soles, the dust on her hem, served only to enhance her gentility. Even the shadows deferred to her—she made beautiful everything upon which she alighted.

“Looking for someone?” a pugnacious voice breathed in Malduc’s ear, startling him. Malduc sighed—deliberately controlled, from deep in his throat—to cover his surprise. He pivoted—nonchalantly—to his left: Sir Oswald glowered so close that Malduc could count the hairs in his beard.

“If I were, it’d be someone more important than you, Dagr,” Malduc made a show of brushing off his sleeve, though Dagr hadn’t touched him. “It is Dagr, isn’t it?” Malduc asked.

Dagr’s nostrils flared, his fists coiled—he even bared his teeth, exposing a jammed piece of food. How anyone could mistake such an uncouth lout for a civilized knight was beyond Malduc. Nobles had such myopic standards.

“The other one seemed more like the mutt of the relationship,” Malduc continued, noting Ebor-cum-Sir-Ethan gripping the Stulorne blade at his hip, ready to pounce on command. Dagr grabbed Malduc by the scruff and dragged him around the corner of the nearest building, where the few passers-by looked away.

“What are you doing here?” Dagr shoved Malduc up against the wall.

“I like to see my work in action.” Malduc tried to move away, but Dagr gripped his shirt with both fists and pressed Malduc back. “A matter of pride,” Malduc grunted. Beside him, Ebor leaned casually back, picking his teeth with a small knife.

“We could give you to Uther,” Dagr said, contorting Oswald’s face into something approximating a grin. “I hear the reward for sorcerers is excellent.”

“Even you wouldn’t be that stupid—I know too much about you,” Malduc said. “And your hosts are already suspicious.”

“No they’re not,” Ebor said defensively.

“Suspicious, despise you,” Malduc stared into Dagr’s rigid malice. “It’s all the same to Uther if I unmask the little trinkets I gave you.”

That got Ebor sufficiently worried, but Dagr remained unmoved.

“Shall we go to King Uther together?” Malduc asked. “I have nothing else I want to do—do you?”

Dagr jerked Malduc up, lifting him to his toes—Malduc resisted the urge to kick. He felt his weight sink into the fists pressed against his neck, his shirt still twisted in Dagr’s fingers. It was all Malduc could do to keep his breath even, but he knew he’d won. Dagr’s lips curled and snarled, chewing on a storm. He begrudgingly released Malduc.

“Besides,” Malduc readjusted his attire, “you break your word as a point of pride—I’m just keeping an eye on what’s mine.”

“Stay out of our way,” Dagr spat, jamming a finger to Malduc’s chest.

“Likewise,” Malduc said, lifting Dagr’s finger with disgust, and relishing in Dagr’s impotent malice as he walked away.

He’d hoped to blend in with the crowd, but promptly found himself pinned by the gaze of a pretty, pale-skinned, dark-haired noblewoman. She wore green, with a lovely golden snake necklace around her throat. She stared at him—no— _through_ him. He might as well have been invisible, Malduc realized, as the Lady was, in fact, staring at Dagr and Ebor (Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan, as far as anyone could see) behind him.

“Are you all right?” a voice asked, from beside the Lady. His butterfly (what happened to the water buckets?), her eyes so rich and brown. Her elbow was locked through the noblewoman’s arm.

“I mean, is everything all right?” Gwen amended her statement, hoping Malduc would stop focusing on her like that.

He didn’t know her name; he hadn’t given her his—they should introduce themselves, Malduc thought. But not in front of the noblewoman.

“Everything’s wonderful,” Malduc said, the sound of his voice drawing Morgana’s attention away from the receding backs of Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan.

Morgana swore she had seen two different men than Oswald and Ethan. Having pulled Gwen away from Lady Marcella’s petty barking, Morgana had glanced around the corner of the wooden building and seen two knights accosting this man now in front of her. But in a blink, the two had changed—height, posture, faces, beards, hair color—as if their clothes had suddenly switched out bodies.

It could’ve just been her imagination—a trick of shadows. But that it might not be—that it might, in fact, be her Sight—unsettled her.

And this man, standing before her—so overwhelmingly familiar.

“Is it,” Gwen said. “That’s,” she clasped her arms around her chest, “that’s wonderful.”

Morgana racked her memory for Malduc’s face, dismissing the possibility that her Sight was also responsible for this déjà vu—she had encountered this man before, she was certain. Gwen shuffled to a more subservient position, slightly behind Morgana, as Malduc devoured Gwen with his gaze. It would’ve been cute—his expression almost like an adoring puppy—if it weren’t making Gwen so uncomfortable.

“Guinevere, I have places to be,” Morgana affected an aristocratic air.

“Of course, my lady,” Gwen bowed, giving Malduc a wan farewell smile.

Once he was out of earshot, Morgana commented, “I don’t think he knows you were just being polite.”

“I don’t want to insult him,” Gwen said.

“Why not?” Morgana asked. “Do you know him?”

“I’ve just seen him around for the Melee.” Gwen didn’t know how to answer Morgana’s first question. She couldn’t really explain it to herself—explain what, anyway? He hadn’t done anything—and she saw no point in randomly antagonizing people.

“And I just don’t,” Gwen added.

Morgana almost argued: If the man couldn’t discern that his attention was unwanted, Gwen might have to risk curtness. But then she remembered Ettare, and Pelleas’s retribution for rejecting him.

“That may be wise,” Morgana said. An unjust wisdom. And wherever she first saw him, it was from before the Melee festivities.

“How many are you going to have?” Merlin asked.

“As many as Arthur can afford,” Gwaine grinned at Merlin as the barkeep refilled his mug.

“That’s the last one,” Merlin told Gwaine before giving the barkeep a look.

“Is that so?” Gwaine asked. “Who’s the noble here?”

“Whoever gives me the money,” the barkeep said, walking off with Merlin’s empty mug.

Gwaine chuckled, unoffended.

“You’ve had enough,” Merlin said.

“I’ve barely wet my lips.”

“Then you can use your own money, or trade your necklace, or something.”

Gwaine’s countenance darkened—a cloud passing over the sun—Merlin was caught off guard, unsure what he’d said to provoke it. Gwaine turned his lips to a grin in an expression that was neither mischievous nor joyful.

“I have a better idea,” Gwaine said. “Let’s announce my lineage.” He jumped up onto the counter, ale still in hand, and addressed the room: “I, the esteemed Prince Arthur’s humble cousin, Gwaine, wish to celebrate Camelot’s illustrious Melee—drinks for everyone!”

Cheers resounded, boisterous and loud.

“No!” Merlin protested, unheard. “No,” he shouted to Gwaine. “No no no!” he shouted at those around him. “No,” he pointed at the barkeep, who, to Merlin’s relief, was equally unimpressed by Gwaine’s display. Merlin dragged Gwaine laughing off the counter and shoved him toward the door.

“But I’m a _noble_ ,” Gwaine mewled in fake protest, laughing all the more at his own joke, and letting Merlin push him outside.

“That explains why you’re acting like such a prat,” Merlin said, releasing him. “What’s your problem with Arthur?”

“He’s a noble,” Gwaine said. Merlin led the way away from the tavern, the lower town jostling around them.

“So are a lot of people. Like King Uther—your uncle. Why not vent at him?”

“Uther’s only related by marriage,” Gwaine said. “Besides, do you know Arthur’s reputation? You don’t get that without being a thoroughbred little braggart.”

“Really—that so?” Merlin had set a brisk pace toward the castle, but now he slowed. “So, at Mary’s tavern, what were you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mary was having all her earnings stolen—in front of everybody—including you. The only person who stood up and did something was Arthur. I didn’t.” Merlin hadn’t thought about it, but he probably would have tripped the ruffians with magic—or put a hole in their pockets so that all the coins fell out. It wouldn’t have stopped them the next time, though—not like Arthur’s authority had.

“But,” Merlin continued, “you treat me with respect and Arthur with disdain. Because of our births—our titles. Are you sure you don’t need to sober up?”

“I don’t treat Arthur with _disdain_ ,” Gwaine said half-heartedly.

“Right—you treat all nobility with disdain.”

“If Uther demanded you die for him, would you?”

Merlin knew there was an expected, appropriate answer, which was Gwaine’s point.

“I thought not,” Gwaine said.

“I’d give my life for Arthur.”

“Kings aren’t worth dying for, Merlin.”

“Is that a philosophical opinion?”

Gwaine hesitated, knowing that Merlin wasn’t really prying. “No,” he decided finally. “My father died fighting for King Pellinore. I remember him leaving, choosing political fealty over his family—my mother thought Pellinore wasn’t worth it—of course, she thinks everyone’s beneath our family.”

“Pellinore—that’s Lamorack’s father, right?”

“Is he?” Gwaine said noncommittally. “Pellinore’s an ass. He’s big, he’s strong, and he likes to stab things—and because he can fight, he thinks he has the right to whatever he lays his eyes on, including a life. You think Uther—or Arthur—is different?”

They’d arrived in the inner courtyard, where all the day’s activity seemed to have relocated. Through the throng of noble bodies, Merlin could see Arthur surrounded by knights—Sir Lamorack and Aglovale among them. He also recognized Sir Taran, and Sir Brandt, but the half dozen others were visitors.

“The overlord and his fawning minions,” Gwaine said.

“Arthur doesn’t ask for anything he’s not willing to give—why do you think he’s so impressed by you? You saved his life, in a fight that wasn’t yours.”

“It wasn’t his, either,” Gwaine said.

“But for some reason, he thought it was. Shall we join the party?”

Gwaine didn’t say anything, just watched Arthur’s group of knights—then he turned his head to Merlin, a sly curiosity in his eye.

“Answer me truthfully: Is going over there right now really your idea of fun.”

And like that, despite whatever points Merlin had managed to make, he lost the argument—because most knights _were_ full of bragging and bravado and an overweening sense of entitlement. No, Merlin did not care what Arthur and his knights were talking about right now. He did not want to spend time in their company. He couldn’t wait for the Melee to be over, for the saturation of aristocracy to be gone.

“C’mon,” Gwaine grinned. “You know how to play draughts?”

Merlin glanced once more at Arthur. The truth was also that Merlin loved seeing Arthur presiding over his men, for the very reason Gwaine disparaged: Arthur’s destiny was for leadership, and every genuine loyal knight in his company was one step closer.

~*~

Another night, another feast.

Morgana had cornered a servant setting the table beforehand and insisted on sitting next to Gwaine; she insinuated that she wished to flirt with him, _get to know him better_. The servant switched two goblets, which, looking at them now, were identical. The servant had either patronized her, or feared Morgana’s wrath.

And Uther had still outmaneuvered her: Arthur sat between her and Gwaine, who sat on Uther’s left.

Perhaps she should have arrived early and conquered a spot—or had Gwen arrange things—or escorted Gwaine to the feast herself, Merlin be damned. It might not have mattered. But Uther’s determination to prevent so much as a superficial interaction convinced her all the more that Gwaine must know something Uther wanted buried.

“Gwaine,” she spoke across Arthur, on her right, “did you ever meet your Aunt Igraine?” Beside Gwaine, Uther conversed with Aglovale and Lamorack—something Gwaine was clearly trying to ignore.

“Gwaine is younger than me, Morgana,” Arthur said.

“Not by much,” Gwaine murmured into his goblet.

“Been studying up, have we?” Morgana said to Arthur.

“As have you, so I hear,” Arthur retorted.

“I can’t be fascinated by Camelot’s illustrious royal lineage?” she said with mock naivete. Gwaine snorted.

“Yeah, it’s marvelous,” he said. “We’re descended from giants and fairies.”

“Oh come on,” Arthur said. He glanced quickly at his father, who’d perked up at Gwaine’s statement.

“Not much of an exaggeration,” Uther commented. “Your family claims to be among the oldest in the land,” he said to Gwaine.

“Claims?” Morgana said. Arthur slapped her thigh under the table with the back of his hand, a message to shut up lest Uther shut up. Uther acted as if Gwaine had asked the question.

“Igraine,” Uther picked through his words, as though the wrong one would cause a landslide.

Merlin refilled Gwaine’s goblet, cocking an ear toward Uther. Morgana wanted to swat him away, even though he was just doing his job—Merlin was just doing his job, wasn’t he—was just being Arthur’s servant—and he hadn’t betrayed her yet.

He truly hadn’t betrayed her, had he?

Yet.

“Igraine . . . mistrusted those who substituted bloodlines for actions. You’d have liked her, I think,” Uther told Gwaine. “And she’d have told you to grow up.”

Arthur’s posture fell, so subtly that only Morgana noticed—Uther was done.

“The Questing Beast is dead,” Uther resumed his conversation with Aglovale and Lamorack. “Pellinore will have to seek a different challenge. The Saxons won’t stay quiet forever; or Vikings—rumor has it that they routinely raid our shores.”

“Pellinore could viking the Vikings,” Gwaine said. He raised his goblet to mutter into his wine: “If he can find a boat big enough for his head.”

Uther ignored him, if he heard, as Lamorack commented, “The Vikings are too sporadic, they’re not a problem.” Arthur studied Gwaine.

“Do you always do that?” Arthur asked.

“Do what?” Gwaine said.

Arthur picked up his own goblet, imitating Gwaine: “Oh, did I say something,” Arthur said instead of drinking.

“I also hear Prince Lot is making a bit of noise up north,” Uther turned to Gwaine and Arthur.

“Lot wants more than one kingdom under his rule,” Arthur confirmed. “Is your father really looking for a fight?” he asked Aglovale and Lamorack.

“Says the renowned Prince Arthur,” Aglovale said. Arthur ignored him.

“Lot likes strategy,” Arthur said. “He won’t get caught in a simple duel.”

“Is that your assessment as well?” Uther asked Gwaine.

Gwaine suppressed a grimace, unable to get out of this discussion—war talks, if anyone was honest—with Camelot and two sons of Pellinore. He again brought his goblet to his lips. “Yes,” he said before taking a sip.

Morgana stopped listening. Why had she assumed Gwaine would care? No doubt, for the same reason she assumed he knew anything in the first place. She was chasing phantoms.

“Morgana, you’re not eating,” Uther chided. He was not really looking at her—he was too busy politicking for his acolytes—administering a princely tutoring session—he’d only noticed her peripherally, as he paused to take a bite from his own plate.

“No,” Morgana admitted. “I’m afraid I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I think I’ll retire early,” she stood. “If you can survive without my company.”

Uther nodded his assent. Morgana left the Hall without further comment, the revelry blind to her exit. Gwen followed, Merlin sneaking after.

“Gwen, I think I just want to go to bed,” Morgana said as they reached the stairs near Morgana’s chambers. She felt so empty.

Merlin skulked behind, staying just within earshot.

“Let me turn it down for you,” Gwen offered as they climbed the stairs. “Set out your night clothes.”

“Thank you,” Morgana halted at the top, moonlight shining through the windows. “But I need solitude right now.” She needed solid ground. She gave Gwen a wan smile, pleading in her mind for Gwen to leave. Gwen, who had once been a great confidante. But that had changed—

Morgana’s face fell, her entire demeanor hardening: at the bottom of the stairs, Merlin had frozen mid-stride.

“A-Arthur was worried about you,” Merlin swallowed his caught-red-handed surprise. He took two steps, to prove he hadn’t been spying but following orders.

“No he wasn’t,” Morgana snapped. Beside her, Gwen stared at Merlin with exasperation. “Gwen,” Morgana continued, “perhaps you could teach Merlin how to mind his own affairs.” She punctuated her command by pivoting around, and, once in her chambers, slamming her door. Merlin had reached Gwen’s side atop the stairs.

“She’s not better, is she?” he said.

“You’re not helping,” Gwen said, descending a step. “What were you even doing?”

Merlin shrugged helplessly as he trailed Gwen back down the stairs. “I-uh—” he tried, the non-sound his only explanation. Why had he followed Morgana? Suspicion? Of what? Habit? An excuse to escape the feast and the drunken demands of blowhard knights? Because it was his job—Destiny said so?

“If I escort you home, will that count as an apology?” Merlin asked sheepishly. He’d followed Morgana because it was his duty to keep an eye on her, but Gaius was the only one who understood that.

Gwen sighed out her disappointment and smiled her consent. She didn’t really want to return to the feast anyway—she was too concerned about Morgana, and Lady Marcella’s incessant domineering had killed her fascination with the festivities.

She accepted Merlin’s proffered arm and they left the castle, bypassing other servants, and avoiding the feast, which reached their ears only as a discordant hum.

“You think one day we’ll be invited to sit at a feast?” Merlin asked. A squire had hustled past, toward the Great Hall (even outside in the courtyard, the feast pervaded).

Gwen wrinkled her nose. ”I think it’d be too much—all that expectation.”

“Oh yes, I hate it when people expect me to chatter and gorge.”

“You laugh, Merlin,” Gwen bantered back, “because Arthur is good at it—he likes it. Others . . . think it’s fake.”

“Is that what you think, or what Morgana thinks?”

“Morgana,” Gwen said. The night air was cool without chill, and the gibbous moon pierced the darkness. Crossing the bridge to the lower town, they heard pools of revelry. Fires and lanterns shone amidst laughter and ale—undeniable celebration interspersed with guards who intermittently joined.

“Sometimes,” Gwen said as they navigated around the parties, “I don’t think she gives people a chance. She likes Arthur—she thinks he’s more than his boasting—but she knows him.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agreed. “People surprise you.” Arthur had certainly surprised him—occasionally still did—and Gwaine’s determination to confound expectation was currently enlivening Merlin’s week. There was also Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan—no, there were knights perplexed by Sir Oswald and how he was acting.

“But not always in a good way,” Gwen said. They had reached her house, and she faced him, her door at her back. “Leave Morgana alone, Merlin. She won’t forgive you if you hound her.”

Morgana’s forgiveness. It would not happen, and he could not seek it—for multiple reasons that, again, only Gaius understood.

“I didn’t want her to die,” Merlin said, and meant it. He mourned Morgana.

“I know that, Merlin,” Gwen said. “And Morgana knows it.” Merlin doubted that. “You have to give her time.”

Time to what, Merlin thought, realize her Destiny? He smiled weakly, but his gaze fell—Gwen was right for what she knew and he couldn’t disabuse her. And he truly did want to save Morgana.

“Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Night, Gwen.”

Merlin headed away, and Gwen softly shut her door. The pockets of celebration echoed still, with no sign of abating. They deserve this fun, Merlin thought. At the royal feast, Arthur was probably missing him—or rather, missing his servant. Too bad. Merlin didn’t want to return just yet. He wanted to breathe in the night, to let his feet wander, his thoughts untangle.

But only a few yards away, against the shadowed wall of a neighboring house, someone watched him.

“Hello?” Merlin said.

The figure stepped forward—the man from the skirmishes who’d been watching Oswald and Ethan. He wore dark clothes now, and a golden torc gleamed from his collar. He stared coldly at Merlin, evaluating—Merlin half-expected a challenge, and he studied the man in turn, recognition evading his grasp.

Then Malduc relaxed. He clasped his hands affectedly, one palm atop the other.

“You are Prince Arthur’s servant,” he said, identifying Merlin to himself.

“I know you,” Merlin tried to place him.

Malduc almost laughed. “Oh, we’ve never met.”

“You know me.”

“You’re Prince Arthur’s servant.”

“Nobody pays attention to servants.” This runaround was obnoxious.

“I do,” Malduc retorted—an unplanned reaction, apparently, for Malduc recomposed himself before continuing: “It must be a prestigious position, the Prince’s servant—yet unappreciated. You’re still invisible, aren’t you? Derided, beat down—less respect than a dog.”

“Who are you?” Merlin asked. _And are you selling something?_

Again, that almost-laugh. “Just a journeyman who wanted to see one of Camelot’s renowned tournaments.”

“’Just’ in the middle of the night?” Merlin started to feel like he’d accidentally joined a mummer’s show.

Malduc chuckled this time.

Practiced dialogue and actions.

Malduc offered his hand: “Beauregard.”

“What?”

“My name.”

A false name, if ever Merlin heard one.

“And it’s nice out here,” Malduc dropped his hand as his eyes unconsciously flicked to Gwen’s house. Merlin glanced back at Gwen’s closed door, then at Malduc.

“Are—are you following Gwen?” Merlin asked, astonished.

“What? No,” Malduc stumbled over his words, and Merlin thought, _Oh did I make you forget your lines?_

“I’m pretty sure she already has a beau, Beauregard.”

“ _No_ ,” Malduc insisted, recovering whatever pride he thought he’d lost. Merlin kind of felt sorry for him, having his heart exposed like that; he also felt triumphant for hitting a nerve—for one moment, Malduc had stopped posturing.

“You imposed your conversation on me,” Malduc continued. “I was just out for a nightly perambulation—

_Perambulation?_

“—You think nobility will ever notice you, treat you well? You should have seen how your friend was being treated today. Guinevere has more grace than those noblewomen ever will—the noble-born have _no idea_.”

“Noble-born—like Sir Oswald?”

“Who?”

“One of the knights you were staring at during the skirmishes.”

“Is that his name?” Malduc picked at a fingernail. “He borrowed something of mine—promised to return it, upon his word.”

“What’d he ‘borrow’?” Merlin asked.

“That’s my problem—I’m sure you have plenty of your own with the Glorious Arthur.”

Did he roll his eyes? Merlin couldn’t be certain in the darkness. “What’s your trade,” Merlin asked, determined to keep the conversation going until he could remember where he’d first seen ‘Beauregard.’

“Manuscripts,” Malduc said. “One would think it would be a respected skill.”

“You’d think a lot of skills would be respected,” Merlin said. “Is this your first time in Camelot?”

“No,” Malduc said, unaffectedly.

“Geoffrey not need an apprentice?” Merlin asked.

Malduc scoffed—a genuine reaction. “I find very few people need an apprentice once they discover how poor my parents were. They say they can smell it on me.”

Merlin was softening. How many people did he pass everyday—how many names didn’t he know? What if his first encounter with ‘Beauregard’ was in the market? Druids called Merlin _Emrys_ , and it was like a promise in Merlin’s soul. Perhaps Beauregard simply wanted to outmaneuver people’s disdain—to be something more than the Sir Oswalds of the world deemed him.

“What, of this world, do you think Guinevere deserves?” Malduc asked, looking at Gwen’s candlelit house.

“Gwen deserves the best,” Merlin said. “But seriously, she’s spoken for.”

“It was a rhetorical question,” Malduc replied. Without any further acknowledgment of Merlin’s presence—as though he’d been talking to himself—he walked away.

Merlin considered following. He considered letting Gwen know about her new suitor, although maybe she already knew. Or maybe Beauregard had got the hint and wasn’t wooing her. Merlin looked around—Beauregard had vanished into the night. Perhaps it was just as well. What justification did he have for following someone simply because he couldn’t remember their name? He closed his eyes. Revelry still echoed through the town, but now it seemed intrusive. He kept missing the mark, of late, and it rattled him—he felt his raison d’etre slipping through his fingers. So he did the only thing he could think to do, and returned to the feast.

~*~

Safe—supposedly—in her chambers, Morgana wiped a tear from her cheek. She refused to cry. She cupped the gold bracelet on her wrist, given to her by Morgause, and embossed with their father’s crest. Morgause, her erased half-sister.

Knowledge without acknowledgment. Truth without truth. That was what she had.

Morgause had enchanted the bracelet to help her sleep, and it did, much better than the sleeping draughts Gaius made her—a small vial of which waited on her bedstand. She took off the bracelet and lowered it over the vial, the one encircling the other.

She had one more resource.

It was time to stop running from herself.

~*~

Long past midnight but prior to dawn, when all the stars had disappeared into a promissory grey, a young boy flew into Gaius’s chambers and abruptly halted—Felix, the son of Timaeus and Octavia, who were lodging Sirs Oswald and Ethan. Disheveled and still gripping the open door, he knocked. Gaius stirred and Felix knocked again.

“Yes?” Gaius propped himself up on an elbow, groggy, trying to assemble some logic to the strange urchin disrupting his sleep at such an hour.

“Mother said to get you and Master Merlin,” Felix said. His errand performed, he danced from foot to foot, his eyes darting everywhere but Gaius, lest the Court Physician ask a follow-up question. His eyes settled on Gwaine, sitting in the window—another incongruity of the hour.

“What’s the problem?” Gwaine asked, rising from his seat and startling Gaius.

Gaius cursed unintelligibly and grabbed a robe.

“It’s my sister and the knights,” Felix said. He released the door and tried to leave.

“Hold it!” Gaius said. “We won’t be able to follow you if you run off. Give us a moment—Merlin!”

Dressed and awake, and Gaius carrying his worn physician’s bag, they reached the house of Timaeus and Octavia with the sun still below the horizon. The sky was growing lighter, however, and servants and merchants hurried about.

“Here they are,” Felix announced upon entering his house. Gaius, then Merlin, then Gwaine followed, walking into a room of hostile silence. Multiple windows were open, along with the door, and the morning light crisply outlined every shape and form.

“Who—” Gaius began.

“We’d like those castle rooms after all,” Sir Oswald told Merlin. The two knights were mostly dressed but completely packed—Merlin was surprised at how much baggage they had piled behind them, that they’d lugged all the way to Camelot on their own. On the other side of the room, Timaeus sat with his daughter, Flavia, in his lap, her wrapped hand resting on the table. A bit of blood had soaked through the cloth.

“What happened?” Merlin asked. Octavia put a bowl of porridge on the table for her son. Felix stirred it slowly, licked his spoon, and surveyed the adults in the room.

“Flavia cut herself on _their_ swords,” Octavia crossed her arms.

“I was just moving them off the table,” Flavia complained quietly.

“ _Blunt_ swords,” Timaeus added, not contradicting his wife. Gaius placed his bag on the table and sat down facing Timaeus and Flavia.

“Exactly,” Sir Ethan said. “They’re blunt.” He pulled his out of its sheath—one of two he wore, Merlin noted, assuming the other one to be honed to standard sharpness. Oswald also wore two swords.

“Blunt,” Ethan insisted, holding it up as proof. Gwaine moved closer, eyed its length, and held his hand out for permission to examine the sword by hand. Oswald cleared his throat and Ethan re-sheathed it.

“She hurt herself on your carving knife,” Oswald sneered at Octavia. Gaius had unwrapped Flavia’s hand to see her wound, but Oswald’s tone drew his attention.

“It’s a bit uncourteous to accuse guests like this,” Oswald continued. “So if we may,” Oswald turned to Merlin. “More suitable rooms—per Prince Arthur.”

“Yes Merlin,” Gaius could barely hide his disbelief, “perhaps it’s best if you escort these knights out.”

“I’ll help,” Gwaine said.

“Follow me, then,” Merlin said, extending his arm to let them exit first. Gwaine picked up one of their bags, and Merlin led the way to the castle. Luckily, the rooms had not been reassigned.

It took several trips for Merlin and Gwaine to carry everything up to the rooms. Gaius cleaned and sutured Flavia’s wound. He instructed her parents how to take care of it, what to watch out for, and to see him if they had any concerns. Finished with Oswald and Ethan, Merlin and Gwaine returned, Merlin short of breath and rolling his shoulders, Gwaine with only a slight glisten on his face to betray any exertion.

“Did Sir Oswald’s manservant not help?” Gaius asked as they walked away from Timaeus’s house. More a comment than a question.

“He has his own servant?” Merlin said, exasperated.

“No servant,” Gwaine said. “How’s the girl?”

“She was cut by an extremely sharp blade,” Gaius said. “It’s clean, it’ll heal . . . ” Oswald bothered him. He knew the family was telling the truth, that Flavia had faltered while moving the swords out of the way.

“Blades that are, as far as anyone can see, blunt,” Gwaine said.

“Too bad you couldn’t get a closer look,” Merlin said. “I think they noticed you trying.”

“I saw what I needed,” Gwaine said. “Their behavior said it all.”

“Have you ever met Sir Oswald before? Or Sir Ethan?” Gaius asked.

“No,” Gwaine said. “But I’ve seen such blades before—they’re forged by sorcery.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised,” Gaius sighed. “I have met Oswald before. He’s a good fighter—likes the camaraderie more than the action—a bit of an epicure, and he is one of the most courteous, respectful gentlemen I have ever met. You’d like him,” he told Gwaine, “despite yourself.”

“And yet I find him discourteous and uncaring,” Gwaine said.

“With magic blades,” Merlin said, as they crossed the gate of the inner wall. “That’s a risk to take, bringing them here—they mean to use them. Probably to kill someone—the Melee,” Merlin realized. “Arthur.”

“Or any of the other dozen noble sons fighting for prestige,” Gwaine said. “A pretend battle is the perfect cover—it’ll be impossible to say just who did it, assuming the death isn’t dismissed as unfortunate happenstance.”

The sun had risen by now, and with it castle activity. They passed manservants, maidservants, pages, and squires; ladies ambling arm-in-arm, or escorted by well-dressed noblemen; they passed guards, and four Camelot knights—marching two-by-two—set to patrol the lower town.

“We have to warn somebody,” Merlin said.

“Merlin,” Gaius was tired of explaining this: “Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan are knights.”

“And I’m just a servant.”

“I’m not,” Gwaine said, and veered away from the ground entrance leading to Gaius’s chambers.

“What are you doing?” Merlin said.

“You still need proof,” Gaius called.

“That’s the beauty of being the King’s nephew,” Gwaine grinned. “I can just ask.”

“Let me,” Merlin began, but Gaius grabbed Merlin’s sleeve, tugging him into the stairwell.

“Do you really think those crystals they wear are involved?” Gaius asked quietly, wary of any nearby ears.

Merlin nodded grimly. “I can’t explain it, Gaius,” and he tried to explain, but Gaius stopped him.

“What if they weren’t wearing them?” Gaius said.

“You mean, do they ever take them off? Or do you mean—”

“I mean, _you_ wouldn’t have to get close—the crystals could ‘accidentally’ fall off.”

True that, Merlin thought—he rather liked the idea. But where and when?

“It might give us some answers, Merlin,” Gaius said, misinterpreting Merlin’s thinking for hesitation.

“Yes it might,” Merlin said—no more dead ends. “In fact, I should probably double check how Sir Oswald is settling in to his chambers right now.” Merlin bounced back down the stairs, smacking into Gwen upon his exit.

“Sorry!” Merlin said, speaking over, around, and with Gwen’s own apologies.

“Arthur’s pacing the corridors looking for you,” Gwen said. “He has not had his breakfast yet.”

Except this dead end.

“I’m on my way,” Merlin sighed.

He hadn’t had breakfast, either.

Arthur attacked his breakfast silently. Merlin made Arthur’s bed, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible—somewhat difficult, as Arthur sat at the window-side of his table, the fireplace to his left, and Merlin well within sight on his right.

It dawned on Merlin that Arthur knew about his magic, yet here he was, making the bed by hand. He stopped. He positioned himself off to the side, and lifted Arthur’s sheets with magic, then the blankets, weaving his hands in the air with each motion. He felt Arthur’s glare, but gave it only cursory notice—and whatever ire Arthur felt, it was soon replaced by curiosity. The study of something heretofore hidden from him. Merlin clamped down the grin that threatened to dominate his face—he couldn’t deny he appreciated being the center of attention, yes—but to use magic in front of someone without fear of death, punishment, reprisal, admonishment, or just plain old impatience—how comfortable—how relieving it was.

Arthur felt his father’s opinion crawl around his neck like an iron collar. He chewed more pensively. Someone knocked on the door, startling Merlin.

“Enter,” Arthur called once Merlin had resumed the mundane way of adjusting Arthur’s pillows.

“Sire,” a servant took one step across the threshold to deliver his message. “King Uther desires your presence.”

Merlin’s gut tripped with anticipation—Gwaine had really done it.

The Council of Camelot and a small array of knights waited with Uther in the Great Hall.

“Gwaine has an interesting accusation,” Uther said to Arthur before sitting down on his throne. Arthur nodded at the information and took his place to the King’s left. Merlin drifted over to Gaius’s side, neither voicing their shared concern.

Gwaine strode through the open door at the end of the Hall, two swords in hand. A few steps behind came Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan, half-dressed and disarmed, escorted by Sir Lamorack on one side and, reluctantly, Sir Cadoc on the other. Cadoc was Oswald’s friend, Merlin remembered, although Oswald seethed equally at everyone around him. Indignant. Bellicose. Ethan, however, shrank with each step, subtly, trying to hide the burgeoning panic in his eyes. Two additional knights brought up the rear.

And as Gwaine proceeded toward Uther, Morgana snuck into the Hall, shadowed by Gwen. She took her seat on Uther’s right, and Uther did not so much as flick his eyes in her direction. Merlin wondered if Uther had actually summoned her.

“My lord, King Uther,” Gwaine declared upon reaching the proper space in front of the throne. “Here are the swords of which I spoke, discovered in the chambers of Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan, as searched by your own loyal men.”

Gwaine maintained a lordly mien, and Merlin suspected he was enjoying himself—enjoying his princely position, despite the sardonic undertone of his speech.

Lamorack and Cadoc bowed their heads to what Gwaine said, Lamorack formally, Cadoc ruefully. Merlin sympathized with Cadoc’s dilemma, but too many questions surrounded Oswald and Ethan.

“Examine them for yourself,” Gwaine said. Uther rose from his seat to take one of the swords, Arthur reached for the other. Merlin maneuvered discreetly behind Gaius—Gaius inhaled sharply, reading Merlin’s intentions. Given Merlin’s height, Gaius did not provide much cover.

“Looks blunt,” Arthur said and flicked his thumb across the blade. “It’s sharp!”

“Quite,” Uther said, sizing up Oswald and Ethan, fury—and triumph—enfolding him like a cloak.

“This is impossibly sharp,” Arthur continued. “How—?” But he knew the answer, even as he looked to Oswald for an explanation.

“Sorcery,” Uther pronounced. Oswald and Ethan were not people anymore. Merlin seized this last opportunity, with all eyes on the accused. He espied the chains around their necks, the slight bulge beneath their tunics where the crystals lay. Memorized it. He closed his eyes—they could betray him—and concentrated, forcing his lips not to move as he snapped first Oswald’s, then Ethan’s chain.

The crystals clunked to the floor.

“What—?” Uther started, accompanied by several other exclamations from the gathered court. Oswald and Ethan fluctuated, their features dissolving and doubling—many of those watching blinked, as though cross-eyed. Oswald patted his chest, verifying the crystal was gone. Ethan stooped to retrieve his, but holding the crystal—clenching it in his fist, even—didn’t suffice.

Morgana gasped, her hand toward her throat, as she stared horrified at the two men, with instant recognition.

Dagr and Ebor stood before King Uther.

“Who are you?” Uther demanded, raising the tip of the Stulorne sword at them.

“You’re from the village,” Arthur said, dumbfounded. Disgusted. His Stulorne hung limp at his side. In his assessment, these two were not a threat, sorcery notwithstanding—he had already dealt with them.

Lamorack, Cadoc, and the two knights had all four unsheathed their swords, ready to defend.

“Dagr, isn’t it?” Gwaine said, unarmed and, like Arthur, unthreatened.

"You thought I couldn't make you pay?" Dagr snarled at Arthur.

“You went through all this, to kill me,” Arthur said. “Because I wouldn’t let you steal from poor peasants?”

“So you’d let them steal from rich nobility?” Gwaine couldn’t help himself.

“You ruined our livelihood,” Ebor retorted.

“Tyrannizing others is not a livelihood,” Arthur said. “And now, you’re just going to be executed for your troubles.”

Executed for sorcery, or for attempted assassination, Morgana thought. She dared not speak aloud, though—these were the two brutes she’d seen morph into Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan. Her own magic had seen through theirs, however briefly, and sitting next to Uther, such a gift meant death.

“You brought this on yourselves,” Uther said. “Seize those crystals, and take _them_ to the dungeons.”

Dagr and Ebor tried to fight. Ebor struggled when Lamorack took his crystal, and Dagr shoved one of the knights behind him, attempting to make a run for it. Cadoc tripped him instantly, as the knight recovered and threw his weight on top of Dagr, shoving Dagr’s face to the floor. Bigger than the knight, Dagr would’ve heaved him off, if Cadoc had not put a boot to his neck.

“I assume my friend is dead,” Cadoc said, pressing the tip of his sword beneath Dagr’s chin—pressing just hard enough to draw blood. Other knights from around the Hall circled them, and Dagr decided he’d rather live for the moment. Led by Sir Lamorack, Dagr and Ebor were escorted to the dungeons by a dozen men.

A knight—Sir Nabon—retrieved the crystals while another knight, Isenhart, received the Stulorne swords from Arthur and Uther.

Relief and elation swept over Merlin—it had all gone so smoothly. He wanted to celebrate with Gwaine—but Uther had beckoned and Gwaine performed the dutiful response by conferencing with the King. Merlin waited for a congratulatory pat on the back from Gaius, but Arthur moved first, grabbing Merlin and dragging him out to a deserted corridor.

“Amazing, Merlin,” Arthur said sarcastically. “Just as Gwaine, your bosom buddy, exposes Dagr’s magic swords, Dagr spontaneously loses his magic disguise—his true identity revealed in front of everyone. Beautiful plan—any reason you didn’t want to let me in on it?”

Not the praise Merlin had hoped for.

“I didn’t plan it,” he said defensively. “I just—seized the opportunity. And Gwaine did all that on his own. And we only found out about the swords this morning.”

“Arthur,” Morgana called before Arthur could reply. She approached quickly, Gwen on her heels. “Arthur, can I speak with you? Alone.”

“I’m a bit busy right now, Morgana.”

“It’s important.”

Arthur waited for her to continue, but Morgana bristled at Merlin’s presence.

“It’s important . . . ” Arthur said.

“Was another man with them? Dark hair, dressed like a peasant who stole from a nobleman?”

“Sir Oswald has a servant,” Merlin offered.

“Doubtful,” Morgana said. “Not the way they were arguing.”

“It was more like he knew who they were, and they were threatening him,” Gwen said.

“Someone knew?” Arthur gestured back toward the throne room.

“Whoever gave them those crystals would know,” Merlin said. _Borrowed something from me_ , ‘Beauregard’ had said.

“A sorcerer,” Morgana was saying, realization dawning: “Malduc.”

Of course. “Malduc,” Merlin said. The real name. And Merlin had had him.

“Malduc,” Arthur said. “Who killed King Ricatus and tried to kill King Mark?”

“He was outside your house,” Merlin said to Gwen, kicking himself—he had _chatted_ with him. Gwen shuffled uncomfortably, glancing at everyone, yet meeting no one’s eyes. Merlin hadn’t meant to put her on the spot, she knew, but like Merlin and Morgana, she’d interacted with this sorcerer—she should’ve noticed.

Arthur sprang into action. “Morgana, you and Gwen go to your chambers, post two guards outside your door,” he ordered.

“You’re shutting me away?” Morgana said.

“I don’t care how unfair you think it is,” Arthur said. “Complaining won’t help. Merlin, go with them— _stay_ with them,” he glared at Merlin and Morgana, then ran back to the Great Hall.

“We should go,” Gwen said before either Merlin or Morgana could speak. She placed her hand on Morgana’s shoulder. “Morgana, please.”

“You are not coming,” Morgana informed Merlin.

“Morgana,” Gwen said softly.

“Yes, my lady,” Merlin said, frustrated by Arthur’s dismissal, and too preoccupied with finding Malduc to argue with Morgana. If Malduc wanted his crystals back, he’d have to take them by force from the vault underground, which meant that that was where Merlin needed to be. Merlin sprinted down the corridor, ignoring Morgana’s spiteful glare.

Merlin suspected Malduc had ways of discovering the vault—if he weren’t already on his way. Malduc seemed to have been following Dagr and Ebor closely. Or, at least, closely enough—he might already know what had transpired. But even if Malduc yet knew nothing, Merlin could grab the crystals and force Malduc to come to him.

Unfortunately, Malduc had found the vault. Merlin heard the struggle—defensive yelps, iron hitting stone—and doubled his speed to the first gate leading to the vault. Sir Isenhart lay slumped in the corner, unconscious but still breathing. Sir Nabon was dead, his head shoved between the bars of the gate, blood running from his ears, nose, and mouth.

Malduc was bent over by Sir Nabon, lifting a crystal that had fallen to the floor, its mate already in his hand. He heard Merlin’s scuffling footsteps—Malduc flung out his hand, releasing a compact gale in Merlin’s direction—Merlin’s eyes flashed, his hand lifted as a shield—a small bang like thunder echoed as the forces collided—Malduc was thrown to the ground—Merlin flew backwards, as if picked up by the wind and dropped. Merlin regained his balance first.

“Stop,” he ordered.

Malduc scrambled to his feet, overcome by shock. He stared, uncomprehending, at Merlin.

“You—” he said. “You?”

“Stop,” Merlin repeated, a plaintive note now in his voice. The collision was loud enough that surely guards would soon arrive. He didn’t want to be caught using magic. He also didn’t want Malduc to tattle on him—nor did he want to kill Malduc (not that watching his execution was preferable).

“Why?” Malduc said, as if Merlin had betrayed him.

“’Why?’” Merlin couldn’t believe the question. “Why what? You’re hurting people—why are _you_ doing this?”

“You mean surviving?” Malduc said. “As opposed to what, complacently laying my neck on the executioner’s block?”

“As opposed to _not_ killing people!”

“Do you tell Prince Arthur that?” Malduc scoffed. “Does he know about you?”

Merlin couldn’t answer—weren’t the guards coming?

“No, of course not,” Malduc said. “That would put your life in danger—then you’d have to defend yourself, too.”

“Arthur’s my friend,” Merlin said, to half-answer Malduc’s question.

“Your _friend_?” Malduc laughed—a pure, instinctive, disdainful laugh. “You think the master is the servant’s _friend_? You are nobody, as far as such princes are concerned—is that why you’re down here? You think you’ll earn recognition by capturing me? Killing me?” Malduc walked toward Merlin. “Are you going to try to kill me?”

Two steps separated them—too close for Merlin’s comfort. He could feel energy forming in his palms, flowing up his arms like beads of sweat.

“If Prince Arthur hasn’t noticed you yet, he won’t notice you ever. Would you like to know how I’ve walked through King Uther’s Camelot so freely?”

“With a false name.”

“And it was as good as an enchantment,” Malduc said. “I am a fishmonger’s son—nobody cares that I exist—I am beneath the consideration of nobility, so they never see me. But you think the world will make an exception for you? I am your only hope for earning renown—I see skills, I understand labor—I haven’t the pomposity of the self-celebrated, so-called nobility.”

“ _Ptssh_. The pretentiousness of nobility is exactly what you have. Look at you, you try to dress like a noble, act like a noble—and listen to yourself: _You_ are my only hope?”

“You don’t know how it used to be,” Malduc snapped. “Sorcerers used to be kings, not prey. But if you are content to idle in the shadows, so be it. I have a greater destiny.”

Malduc tried to brush past, but Merlin blocked the way.

“How honorable,” Malduc said. “They’d kill you, if they knew what you were.”

Merlin regarded Nabon and Isenhart. Nabon had been with them in Cameliard, where magic was legal—had that changed him? Merlin hadn’t tested those knights—he didn’t want to push his luck. And Sir Isenhart—one of Uther’s men, was all Merlin knew.

Malduc was walking away. Nabon had been the one carrying the crystals, and was dead. Isenhart had the Stulorne blades, which remained on the floor nearby.

Merlin ran after Malduc, but Malduc had bolted, with enough of a lead that Merlin couldn’t catch up. He bumped into some knights, heading down to the vault.

“What happened?” one asked. “Nabon said Isenhart is dead.”

Nabon? “That was Malduc!” Merlin said. “Nabon’s dead.”

Two knights broke off from the group and headed back, but Merlin guessed that Malduc was as good as gone.

“Show me,” the knight said, and Merlin, defeated, led them to the vault—to Sir Isenhart, and the body of Sir Nabon.

~*~

Arthur had left the night’s feast early—most knights had left early, in fact, for the Melee was on the morrow. Now Arthur stood at his window, half-undressed, staring out into the night.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said. He’d gathered the firewood and lit the fire—without magic—lost in his own thoughts. He stared into the flames before him.

“For disobeying me, or for letting Malduc escape?” Arthur spoke to the window. Throughout Camelot, guards were patrolling, on the lookout for a sorcerer who could look like anybody.

“I didn’t—” Merlin started to explain, but his words fell—he’d thought through all the ways he could have captured Malduc, all the things he could’ve done differently. He stood. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“We told the guards to look for the crystals, not Malduc’s face,” Arthur said.

“That’s a good idea,” Merlin said. “The Melee’s still tomorrow.”

“We won’t allow a sorcerer to ruin our plans.”

“Sounds like Uther.”

“My father’s furious.” Arthur stepped away from the window. “I don’t blame you for Malduc, Merlin. You said he was at Gwen’s house—you were supposed to protect her and Morgana, to stay with them. In case.”

“Oh.”

“Who would’ve been better?” Arthur went to his bed and pulled down the blankets, Merlin running over to do it for him.

“It’s fine, Merlin. I _can_ do things. Go. Get some sleep.”

Awkwardly—disheartened—Merlin left. When he returned to Gaius’s chambers, he found Gaius cleaning his tools as he stood at his worktable. Phials of tinctures, jars of ointment, scattered herbs, decanters, and scales surrounded his worn, old bag. Gwaine sat at the dining table reading what looked, from the doorway, like a book of Roman poetry. He wore a simple tunic and trousers, and when he leaned back in his chair to put his feet on the table, Gaius grunted a warning; Gwaine dropped his feet, glanced up at Gaius, and saw Merlin.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Gwaine said.

“Door was open,” Merlin said, shutting it behind him. “What’s that?” He pointed to a sword lying on the table in front of Gwaine.

“This blunt old thing?” Gwaine said.

“Uther sent it,”Gaius said.

“So you’re fighting tomorrow,” Merlin said.

“Mustn’t disappoint,” Gwaine said.

“I’m sure you can bear your burden,” Gaius said.

“Your title really helped expose Dagr and Ebor,” Merlin observed.

“As much as their sorcerer double-crossing them?” Gwaine asked. “We couldn’t have asked for better timing.”

“According to Sir Lamorack, they’ve been railing against Malduc non-stop,” Gaius gave Merlin a knowing, grateful look.

“Guess that says something about trusting sorcerers,” Merlin tried to make a joke.

“Sorcerers like Malduc, maybe,” Gwaine commented. “But Uther will rule as he sees fit, I suppose.” Gwaine stood and blew out the candles on the table.

“What about you?” Merlin asked. “Are you staying long?”

“Camelot was never on my route,” Gwaine said. “I’m leaving as soon as courtesy allows me.”

“So you’ll just keep traveling,” Merlin said.

“Seems I still need to learn how to see people,” Gwaine said, saluting Merlin. “Good night.”

Merlin and Gaius waited as Gwaine closed Merlin’s door.

“Merlin, you need to be extra careful,” Gaius said quietly. “With Malduc—and Pelleas—at large, Uther will be especially vigilant.”

“Yeah,” Merlin nodded. “For my own safety, I have to appease Uther.”

“Merlin,” Gaius admonished. “Don’t make the same mistake Uther does, of seeing only the magic—these men are criminals—Malduc uses magic for his own gain, and kills for convenience sake.”

“ _I know_ , Gaius.” Merlin wanted to pick a fight—he wanted to avoid all fights—he wanted to sleep. “I feel like I’m losing a war,” he said.

“Malduc got away,” Gaius said. “You lost a battle—that’s not the war. You’ll win in the end, you always do,” he patted Merlin’s shoulder.

And Merlin was comforted. Gaius was right. Another encounter with Malduc was certain, and the next time, he would be ready.

~*~

**EPILOGUE**

Morgana awoke with a start, clutching her bedsheets. Sweat prickled her face and a tear escaped from the corner of her eye. She had trouble breathing. Her visions blended into each other, fading into incoherent scraps.

She was no wiser, no more knowledgeable than before.

She wasn’t alone.

Elayne lounged in chair against the table, wearing a simple red dress, bare feet, and her hair braided over her shoulder.

“You keep hating Uther while trying to dream,” Elayne said sadly.

“You’re here,” Morgana said, trying not to see Elayne’s resignation as judgment.

“No,” a subtle shake of her head. “I’m projecting. You just see me.”

“Oh. Neat.” Morgana swallowed her envy, forcing herself to not cry.

“Light a candle,” Elayne said. “Or find a pretty rock—something to stare at until the only thing in your mind is what you want to know.”

“That will control my visions?” Morgana swung her legs over the side of her bed.

“It will help bring them under control. They won’t be nightmares anymore. But you won’t be able to dictate what you see, if that’s what you mean.”

“You know it isn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Morgana.” And Elayne was gone, her disappearance so immediate that Morgana had to blink to steady herself.

Nothing more than a scrap.

She would take it.

- _-end--_

**Author's Note:**

> I've done everything I can to prevent my stories from becoming inaccessible; everything you need to know in each story is given in that story. 
> 
> But I do have multiple recurring original characters: Malduc's first appearance was in 3.2 "Tristan & Isolde." Elayne was introduced in 3.3 "Enemy Lines" and showed up again in "The Cauldron of Ceridwen." Ettare's predicament happened in 3.8 "The Errant Ones." Cadoc, Madoc, and Taran have been sprinkled, or sometimes foregrounded, throughout my series; likewise, I've been slowly fleshing out Camelot's Council since about mid-way through. 
> 
> As for the Cameliard Cycle (as I think of it), where Merlin & Arthur plotlines occur in the Kingdom of Cameliard, that's stories 3 through 8.
> 
> For anyone who's curious.


End file.
